Ploy to the World (The Grinch Is Come)
by QuillerQueen
Summary: Storybrooke is getting ready for grand Christmas festivities, and a large chunk of the work rests upon Regina's shoulders. Everything that could possibly go wrong does, and a new villain strikes the moment they think they can finally take a break. Rated M for smut and F for fluff.


_Author's Note: Dearest shipmates, I hope you enjoy this little story written for the amazing Outlaw Queen Advent project. It has a bit of everything: angst, fluff, and smut; fun and cheesy and sweet. Break out the eggnog and the cookies, grab your device of choice, and happy reading!_

* * *

A week before Christmas, 108 Mifflin Street is filled with laughter and the smell of freshly baked cookies.

The kitchen is fuller than ever with Regina and her boys all crammed inside, and no longer pristine. A dusting of flour and powdered sugar covers every possible surface, providing the perfect drawing board for Roland's tracing little fingers whenever they need to wait for the timer to go off between tasks. The smudge of white on Regina's cheek is courtesy of Robin, who's connecting intensely with his inner child and plops another dot of sugar on the tip of her nose.

"Now all you need is whiskers, my love," he says lowly into her ear before kissing the flour off, and grins at her scandalised expression.

"Don't let Roland hear you," she hisses, but can't help the upturn of her lips. "And you're late with such ideas—Halloween was a while ago."

The playful bump of her hip as they cut out gingerbread men and Christmas trees side by side draws a roguish smile out of him, and the way his eyes flick to her lips leaves no room for doubt as to where his thoughts have briefly wandered—his hands won't, not now at least, not with the children in the room, so Regina just leans in to steal a sweet, perfectly chaste kiss.

"Mom," Henry huffs, struggling on the other end of the counter, "if you're done with Robin there, can you come help me with the roof?"

It was his idea to make their own gingerbread house from scratch, a feat never before accomplished and not attempted since Henry was five years old and the two of them ended up eating the whole thing before they ever got the chance to assemble it. Now the perfectly perpendicular walls stand ready to be capped with the sloping roof Henry's holding ready. Regina wields the pastry bag with the icing and squeezes generous amounts to glue the rims together. It works like a charm, and holds, and Henry grins at her pleased as punch—he's been in charge of this little project after all, and she's overcome by a ridiculous sense of pride and happiness that has her planting a warm kiss against his forehead.

"Okay, Mom," Henry chuckles just as Roland rushes over to demand a kiss, too, and _can he please help with the candy_?

Gumdrops, liquorice and peppermints travel from hand to hand, a haphazard decorating affair Regina tries subtly to regulate. Some of everything is lost in sweet-toothed mouths, but the majority makes it, and their very own gingerbread house stands proud just as the last batch of chocolate chip cookies is ready to come out of the oven.

Since it's time for movie night next and Regina doesn't feel like wasting even a moment, she summons her magic to do the cleaning for her while Henry and Roland transfer cookies onto plates and pour milk into glasses. Robin takes on the task of setting up the DVD player and triumphs after just two minor failures. Sprawled in front of the TV together watching _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_ ( _those other reindeer are bullies_ , Robin mutters into her hair, and _why's the jolly red bloke never tell them off?_ ), munching on gooey chocolaty goodness, the four of them are the veritable picture of holiday cheer.

Then everything goes to hell.

###

It starts with the shrill sound of Regina's phone ringing on Sunday morning. Ruing the moment she went to sleep with the damn thing unmuted (she always does, she needs to be reachable in case the next big bad swoops down upon them), Regina abandons the warm sheets and Robin's warmer embrace to get it before it wakes the whole house.

The neon digits of the alarm clock spell 8:15 AM. Not all that early, but it's Sunday, and she's been working hard, and she just wants to crawl back in bed, curl up against her soulmate's chest and nap some more.

But she can't, because the stupid phone won't stop blaring, and she's the mayor and there might be an emergency, so she punches the button to answer the unknown number.

"What?" she barks, her voice rough with sleep and laced with irritation.

"This is Mother Superior."

"Blue." _Well, this is an unpleasant surprise._ Of all possible callers, the Blue Fairy is among the lowest on Regina's desirability list. At least her tone doesn't bear evidence of impending doom—but then what is she bothering Regina for at all? Regina can't quite suppress the sarcasm as she asks, closing the bedroom door behind her with caution and padding down the stairs: "What can I do for you this Sunday morning?"

"You need to move our stand. I'm afraid I must insist—"

Regina bristles at Blue's presumptuous tone—she doesn't _need_ to do anything—but there's a larger issue at play, namely that this whole conversation is quite absurdly premature.

"What are you talking about?" Regina blurts out. "The plan hasn't been made public yet, it's going out to the vendors tomorrow." She would know—she only worked on the damn thing all of last week, trying to figure out the best location for each stand at the upcoming fair while eliminating the potential for discord amongst those citizens whose mutual relationships are a bit on the hostile side. Turns out there's enough bad blood in Storybrooke to keep the mayor and a few others thus occupied for the better part of a week.

"It's out," says Blue coolly. "We received our copy just this morning. And like I said, I demand—"

"City hall doesn't operate on weekends. Please deliver any complaints you have to my office. They will be dealt with tomorrow, business as usual."

The line is silent for a while, and Regina can just about touch the tension between them. And then the damn fairy delivers the blow Regina should quite frankly have seen coming.

"I certainly will. And so will many others. You might want to put in some extra hours, Madam Mayor."

Regina ends the call with a violent stab at the button and flings the phone onto the kitchen island, where it slides across the gleaming surface and skids to a halt just shy of the edge. It's not yet half past eight and Regina already has a headache brewing and a problem on her hands. There's a mole in her planning committee, or at the very least someone with a poor understanding of discretion, and it's hard not to jump to conclusions when one Mary Margaret Blanchard just happens to be on that committee.

"Trouble with the fair?"

Regina starts at the unexpected sound, her heart suddenly running a mile a minute. Robin instantly apologises, a flicker of guilt in his eyes.

"I didn't mean to startle you. I thought you'd heard me come in."

She brushes it off—it's not his fault she's so jumpy after all, and he's never anything but considerate of her—and moves over to him, arms winding around his waist as his enclose her in an embrace. Still, it takes a while before her heart assumes a less frantic pace again. He's still deliciously bed-warm, and god, how she wishes she could just lead him back upstairs and cuddle, or perhaps even do something a whole lot naughtier but certainly equally nice with him.

She can't.

"Sno—Someone," she corrects, because there's still a chance, however slight, that Snow is not responsible for this, "messed up and released information early, and now I have a bunch of disgruntled citizens to deal with." And she hates to tell him this, because they have plans, they are supposed to have breakfast together and then finally have some alone time, just the two of them, but, "I think I'll have to go in to work. Try to do some damage control."

Robin rubs her back and hums.

"How about," he ponders, dotting kisses along her hairline, "I take care of the boys, then make us some lunch, and when you come home we can still," and there's that flirtatious half-smirk that sends her stomach aflutter, and the playful wiggle of his brows that sparks small shocks of heat down in her belly, "do some of the things we wanted to do."

She grins into his pyjamas, mutters _thank you_ and _that sounds nice_. Surely she'll be done by midday, and then they can relax in the bathtub together and do all manner of delicious things to their hearts' content.

###

Noon comes and goes, and Regina is nowhere near finished with work.

In fact, by the time Robin brings her lunch in around two, her office has turned into a way station for half the town. She wolfs down the roast beef and baked potatoes between claimants and barely even gets to say two words to this wonderful man without whom she would starve before he's replaced by one of the dwarfs, god only knows which. It's not Leroy—he was one of the first queueing at her door in the morning, hollering something about the rides consuming too much power, and how the generator will never make it. If the idiot responsible for this disaster had at least bothered sending out the revised documents, Leroy would know, as Regina informed him in no uncertain terms, that she's actually not a complete moron and has already authorised the installation of a larger capacity generator for this very reason. This one, this not-Leroy, wants something done about some stupid Christmas lights a neighbour'd put up, and Regina has just about had it.

She's in the process of shooing the unfortunate dwarf from her office when Snow White stumbles in, shaking snowflakes out of her wool hat.

"I am so sorry, Regina, I—"

"Don't you _sorry_ me, Mary Margaret Blanchard," she spits, and Snow flinches at Regina's choice of address. There's something satisfying about middle-naming someone, and this is the closest it gets with Snow—and Regina can tell Snow instantly senses the distance her words set up between them. A tiny part of her is dredged in guilt, but the anger wins out, and all the pent-up frustration spills forth.

"Do you know what I've been doing while you were playing house with your family? Missing mine because of your stupid mistake! This could all have been avoided if we'd announced everything in proper order, but no. Now Blue had me move the nuns' stand even further away from the fun fair, because apparently Mother Superior cannot stand a little joy and laughter while solemnly selling her damn candles. That of course meant I had to move Marco next to the fun fair instead, which he was actually, shockingly, fine with—until it turned out August is supposed to man the crafts booth, which apparently absolutely needs to be right next to Marco's stand, so I had to move that, too. All that shuffling around landed that little tailor, Schneider, way too close to the food stalls, which is of course exactly what we'd been trying to avoid from the get go, because we wouldn't want his precious wares to smell of food! And if that wasn't enough—"

"Neal's sick," Snow cuts in.

That shuts Regina up.

"Oh. Well. Is he—okay?"

"Doc says he'll be fine, but he's running a fever and he's exceptionally fussy, I couldn't just leave him. But Regina, I came as soon as I could—and for the record, that leak? Not me."

"It wasn't?" A fresh bout of guilt floods her, but Regina dismisses it—there's no time, and it helps no one. "But then who—?"

"I don't know. But Leroy stopped by earlier," and even Snow rolls her eyes at that, "he wants to know if that additional inspection of the rides early on Friday is really necessary, since he's inspecting them on Wednesday anyway."

"Of course it is, we've talked about this, for heaven's sake. Yes, I know the law doesn't require the extra precaution, but I'm not taking any risks."

"Which is what I told him," Snow says—no, placates, and that's irritating, too. "Now, why don't we split that pile of files on your desk and try to get some work done from home?"

It isn't what Regina had in mind for her Sunday evening, but at least there are no more upset citizens badgering her as she goes over concern after complaint on the couch of her fire-lit study. The solid warmth of Robin's back behind her is some compensation at least for the pulsing headache spreading from the back of her skull. The book he's been reading ( _Frosty the Snowman_ , another one off of Henry's list of Christmas must-reads assembled to initiate Robin and Roland into the holiday traditions of this world, and one that's had Robin shaking his head and questioning the obsession with hats in this realm's tales) slips from his fingers eventually as he dozes off.

Regina stays up long into the night, working away to the sound of his soft snores.

* * *

She wakes before her alarm again, roused by the sharp pain in her neck, and her week only gets progressively worse.

The lingering results of the awkward angle on the couch last night plague her as she spends her Monday buried under requests and grievances ranging from mildly curious or petty to astoundingly absurd and downright impossible. One concerned citizen reports that their poinsettia has turned a strange shade of mouldy overnight. Another rages that the fair will take place _too far away from my house and I'm gonna have to walk_. Yet another has lodged a formal complaint about the overbearing noise level caused by the fair just outside their window, and stamped it with a future, post-Christmas date—Regina incinerates that one, and hopes the clairvoyant Miss Abby Scrooge is wise enough to avoid the mayor for the foreseeable forever.

Pressing cool fingertips to her tortured temples, she's just contemplating grabbing her coat to air her head a little during a much needed lunch break when Emma bursts into her office like a tornado of bad news. Judging by her troubled look, not only is Regina not getting a break at all, but her day is about to go from bad to worse. Regina's only consolation is that Emma's at least brought food, and it's not even anything deep-fried or dripping grease.

"Lay it on me," she sighs, prodding her salad with a fork as Emma settles in the chair opposite hers and unwraps her grilled cheese.

"There's something wrong with this town."

Regina snorts. "I'll say. I've been sifting through this junk for days—Christmas spirit seems to mean nothing to these people. All they do is complain."

"Well, isn't that what they always do?" Emma shrugs, and Regina bristles. Of course it's what people do, constantly, but this level of moan and groan doubling her already mountainous workload is something else entirely, and frankly she doesn't appreciate having her problems so easily dismissed. But Emma means no offence, and from the looks of it she's having almost as bad a day as Regina. So Regina tells herself to get over it as Emma tacks on: "No, I mean the freak accidents popping up all over the place."

"Go on."

"This guy comes to the station first thing in the morning, going on about someone sabotaging his Christmas light display. Of course I think it's your regular malfunction—you know, half the string not lighting up, that kind of stuff. Turns out instead of _HOHOHO_ , the things now spell _HUMBUG._ Then a kid comes in mid-morning, shows me a sled parked in front of the station with her dog harnessed to it—the pup suddenly thinks he's a reindeer. I mean, what the hell? Just before lunch, a mom calls that her son's tricycle disappeared. By the time I get there the tricycle's back, only someone's kept the bike horn and the kid's still in tears over it. By the way, who names their kid Elphias?"

"So we're dealing with a prankster," Regina sighs, torn between seething and plain exhausted. Surely Emma can handle this sort of thing without her anyway? She _is_ the sheriff after all, and they've had worse.

Emma nods, as if she knew exactly what Regina is thinking, and maybe she does—Regina supposes her face must be quite easy to read at the moment.

"Thing is, whoever's behind it left zero evidence. I had Doc McStuffins look at the puppy—said he was okay medically, but she'd never seen such behaviour in dogs before. And to just keep feeding him carrots if that's what he's into," Emma grins, her smile falling at Regina's raised eyebrow, and she's quick to add, "but that's beside the point."

"Did you check for traces of magic?"

"Yeah. I was hoping you might have some additional tips though, being the more experienced between us and all."

"I suppose we could set up a few protection spells around those houses," Regina shrugs. It should put those families at ease at least, but it won't do anything to help them find the culprit.

Emma's answer comes delayed by the last sizable bite of her lunch.

"Something tells me they won't strike in the same location twice."

"We could try and put the whole town under a protective shield," says Regina doubtfully, "but that won't work for attacks from the inside."

"It's also a bit of an overkill assuming this is all just a practical joke."

"But you're not sure."

"There's just something funny about it," Emma admits with a frown. "My gut says there's more to this. I just don't know what."

The bright side, or so Regina tries to tell herself, is that she spends her afternoon out of the office. Elphy's family welcomes the protective enchantments placed upon their home; Regina is less thrilled, for she, just like Emma, is unable to find any trace of magical evidence of the theft that occurred. She's quite stunned to find themselves driving up Mifflin Street next, the question on the tip of her tongue answered by giant letters shining in the dusk of early winter night, spelling out _HOHBUG_ on the face of the building directly next to her own mansion. The Osbornes, it turns out, had just moved in, and installed a massive light display the night before, only to have it vandalised before first use. The deed, then, happened right in Regina's own backyard—or as close to it as can be. Emma conveniently forgot to mention this, and merely hands Regina a stack of unfinished paperwork she somehow smuggled into the bug before departing from city hall. She gets to go home early (not really, it's past her working hours already, but she was prepared for overtime), maybe cuddle up with Roland and spend some time with Henry before she slips to bed with Robin—and dives back into work on the damn fair that can't be over soon enough.

###

Robin doesn't get Christmas.

He tries, truly he does, but the more he sees, the less he understands. The fat, bearded old man in red who breaks into people's homes by way of the chimney of all places to deliver presents is probably the one thing that does make sense, and that says a lot. The jolly character reminds him a bit of the Holly King of old lore. Santa's reindeer are, of course, a bit of a sloppy story, at least when it comes to the males—for, as he informs Henry in an undertone lest Roland overhear them, it's very unusual for male reindeer to keep their antlers as long as late December. This would make Santa's rides either highly untypical, sterile, or female.

But he can look past all that. What he doesn't get is all the fuss.

That pesky near-year back in the Enchanted Forest had a bit of that, too, thanks to Snow White. Regina refused point-blank to be involved in the celebrations then, her heart overcast by deepest grief. This time is different though, bigger, more elaborate—and the bulk of the work rests on Regina's shoulders.

Robin knows the responsibility that comes with leadership, and Regina is nothing if not dedicated. Everything she does, she does with her whole heart. So it doesn't surprise him when she sacrifices a precious day of rest to the townsfolk, nor does he begrudge her this. Monday sees her equally busy, and he shouldn't be surprised—she'd foreseen that, warned him that it might get rough as she puts the finishing touches to the Christmas fair about to take place on Christmas Eve.

So Robin goes about his business as usual, somewhat settled already into the patterns of this still new life. He sleeps in because he can, and because he's not likely to get overmuch sleep with his precious baby girl in the house. He picks her up at noon at Zelena's—a chore none too pleasant, but civil enough—and takes Peanut to visit her uncles. His Merry Men are no longer camped out in the woods, having decided to see Maine's harsh winter through at Granny's instead. The diner is full of their raucous laughter, and Peanut squeals in delight as she's passed from hand to hand. That delight turns to consternation once the darling bundle grows tired, and they venture out again. She's rocked into sleep in the pram by the time they reach Storybrooke Elementary to pick up Roland and Henry.

Predictably, there's no sign of Regina when they get home. They tackle homework and help Roland with the card he's making for her, fingers big and small soon sticky with glue and covered in glitter. Peanut is gurgling from her bassinet as they set the table for dinner, and Robin's just about to call Regina and ask if they should wait for her when her keys rattle in the door.

"Regina, you're home!" cries Roland and launches himself into her arms. The stack of paperwork she's juggling tumbles to the floor, but she's thrown off balance a mere fraction of a second before she's hoisting the overexcited boy into her arms.

"Indeed I am," she chuckles. "And what did you do today?"

Dinner is an animated affair as Roland gives a detailed account of his adventures in preschool, with Regina _oohing_ and _ahing_ in all the right places. She looks over Henry's reading journal and insists she'll get Peanut's bottle. She's there for them, always, even at the end of what must have been a tiring day—Robin sees the weariness settling around her eyes, weighing down her eyelids. It's a losing battle, but like so many of the kind, Regina fights it with a tenacity he admires but that also worries him.

She tells them she's only going to lie down with Peanut for a bit, that she wants to be there when they tuck the boys in, the stubborn, wonderful woman that she is. But no matter her determination, exhaustion wins out in the end, and Regina goes down before Peanut does.

###

When Robin wakes in the middle of the night to complete stillness rather than Peanut's shrill cries, he's disoriented for a while. The next strange thing that registers is the lack of that deep, steady breathing he was so grateful for on Regina's behalf in the evening. Then the soft orange glow behind his closed eyelids flashes with rainbow colours, and _that_ , he knows now, is what must have woken him in the first place. Rubbing the remnants of sleep from his eyes, he leaves the cosiness of their bed and tiptoes to the window, hoping to salvage Regina's dreams at least.

A sharp pain slices into his eyes, and momentarily blinded, he draws the drapes close—closer, tighter—so that not a sliver of light filters through even the most minuscule gap.

"Don't bother," Regina huffs, "I'm already up."

With a sigh, Robin crawls back to bed, the twinkling Christmas display outside bright enough that it illuminates Regina's face. She's lying on her back staring straight ahead, her jaw set and her body stiff.

"You could have woken me, you know," she says, talking to the ceiling, in a tone that's trying much too hard to be neutral. "I really did want to spend some more time with you all."

Robin scoots closer, but doesn't touch just yet.

"I know," he nods, because he does, had considered that when faced with the decision. "But you both looked so content. And you need your rest, Regina. You do so much."

And it's coming from a place of concern and affection, but it's something else she must hear instead, an accusation he never intended, for she's flashing her eyes at him now.

"I have to work, Robin," she snaps. "Contrary to what everyone seems to think, this town won't run itself. But our children," her voice goes from defensive to plain hurt, "always come first for me."

"I never suggested otherwise." And just to leave no room for doubt, he adds: "Never crossed my mind either."

Regina's face softens, and she reaches for him somewhat tentatively, like she expects rejection. So he meets her halfway, lacing their fingers in what little space remains between them. A small sigh escapes her at the contact, and she sags a little in relief.

"I'm sorry," she breathes. "I just—I suppose I really am tired."

"Ah. Perhaps I can be of assistance, m'lady?" Robin jokes, coaxing the remnants of tension from her body with questing fingers, and she squirms when he hits a ticklish spot beneath her ribs.

"Way too tired for that," she chuckles, and even that blissful sound is, well, tired.

But her eyes flick from his face to the window, the walls, the furniture. Those wretched lights still find a way in despite the thick, heavy drapes—stray little patches refracting off polished surfaces and stealing their sleep.

"C'mere," Robin whispers as he gathers her in his arms. Regina curls into him, face hidden in the crook of his neck, and he can't help the smile when she inhales his scent. He pulls the covers over her for good measure, then buries his own face in her sleep-mussed locks. They smell of apple and cinnamon, like just about everything this season—and yet somehow different, somehow uniquely Regina. He'll pay the new neighbours a visit tomorrow, but for now he's content to rub circles across his love's back as she sinks into sleep again—to breathe her in while he goes under as well.

* * *

Tuesday is the day of thieves.

True to his word, Robin knocks on the Osbornes' front door after breakfast and politely asks them to tone the extravagant light display down a little. Mr Osborne politely refuses. Robin casually hints at being friends with the sheriff (and he has a great appreciation for the irony of this). Mr Osborne shrugs and names a dozen people he's closely acquainted with. Robin, unimpressed not only because the names ring no bells whatsoever, openly threatens with the letter of law (he's never going to live this down were his men ever to find out). Mr Osborne accuses Robin of being a _grinch_ —whatever that may be—and shuts the door in his face.

So much for that, then.

Deciding that his street cred (a concept he's been quite fond of ever since Henry explained it to him) has been tried enough already that he might as well go all the way, Robin dresses the screaming and kicking Peanut (there's that Mills temperament he's come to know and love in Regina) and sets off to the sheriff station.

"Hey, Robin," Emma greets, depositing the jacket she was about to slip into back onto the coat rack. "I was just about to head over for a talk."

"Regina's already at work."

"I bet she is," Emma half smirks, half frowns. "But I actually wanted to talk to you."

"Ah, did you indeed?" Robin pauses briefly at this turn of events, then continues carefully to unzip Peanut's fox print snowsuit so that the sleeping tot doesn't overheat. "Well then, what can I do for you?"

Emma leans back in her chair as Robin takes the other one. Her posture says casual, but he can still tell she means business by the way she considers him for a bit before she speaks.

"You could help me keep this town in check—at least until this whole Christmas craze is over."

"I'm afraid I don't follow." There is, after all, no villain on the loose for once, and Storybrooke is the most peaceful he's ever seen it—possibly the most peaceful since Emma first set foot in it, or so he's heard people say.

"With all the ridiculous complaints and now this prankster on the loose, Dad and I are in over our heads. The town could use more law enforcement these days. I'm offering you the job. So, Robin Hood—will you be a sheriff's deputy?"

Robin's mouth twitches at what he's quite certain must be a joke—but Emma shakes her head at him and insists she's _for real_.

"Emma, I'm a thief," he protests, entirely baffled by the offer. "Sheriffs tend to be my adversaries, not allies."

But Emma seems none too surprised by his scepticisms, nor is she having any of it.

"Yeah, well, that's changed, hasn't it." And she must have thought this through, for she has her arguments ready. "It's not like you and your men can run around Storybrooke and be outlaws like you used to in the Enchanted Forest. Regina would skin you alive if you messed with order in her town—and so would I, for the record. Look," she rights herself in the chair, the scuff of her boots against the floor eliciting a soft gurgle from Peanut. "I know it's a little unorthodox, but that's kind of the point. You know the ropes. No lousy prankster can outsmart the prince of thieves. And when the going gets rough, you can stand your ground in a fight. You're reliable, and people look up to you. And," she grins, "there's a good chance the mayor will actually approve of this appointment."

Robin can't suppress a grin of his own.

"I may have heard Regina complain once or twice about nepotism ruining local law enforcement."

"Please," scoffs Emma, "not a week goes by that she doesn't drop that sarcastic remark. So, will you do it?"

Robin bites his lip, his mind reeling. Truth be told, now that life is settling into a somewhat normal pattern that doesn't involve vanquishing villain after villain on a daily basis, Robin isn't the only one building a new life here. Several of the Merry Men have found respectable jobs in town now that thieving is out of the question, and Robin himself has been considering an employment beyond the occasional shift at the pet shelter. Hours here certainly seem flexible enough that he'll be able to accommodate this with family life as well—Emma and David certainly manage. And even if the job turns out merely temporary, he's not one to refuse a friend help when they ask for it.

"I can't believe it's come to this," Robin chuckles, "but alas, yes."

###

First order of business is checking whether there is some legal action to be taken against the man pestering them with light enough to turn night into day. Not even Emma's needling that it's barely his first hour on the job and already he's abusing his power deters him from scouring through laws and ordnances on one of the computers as he rocks the pram gently with his other hand. He comes up empty though—there's no immediate action at least, and there hardly seems a point to starting what Emma patiently explains would be a lengthy process lasting way beyond the Christmas holidays.

By the time a harried Regina calls him to cancel lunch, the sheriff department is so flooded with reports of violations and suspicious activities Robin thinks he might not have gotten away anyway. The latest uproar comes from one of the town's carolling choirs, the Singing Telegrams—an odd choice of name if you ask him—after it's been discovered all their costumes had disappeared along with the lyrics sheets and the pitch pipe. The group was quick to blame their rivals, the Melodiacs, for what they claim is nothing but a desperate attempt to eliminate them from the traditional annual Yule Duel carolling battle. In response to the allegations, the Melodiacs mock the Telegrams' failure to gain the upper hand three years in a row—and they do so in song, with improvised lyrics so creatively venomous Robin wouldn't believe it if he didn't hear it.

An adorable mutt begins to follow him around as Robin goes about his business making house calls with citizens reporting minor thefts, or else suspicious meddling with their carefully executed Christmas decor. A defaced Christmas wreath here, a stolen trumpet there. A set of loudspeakers vanished from an obscure club, and a toy drum from a little house on the square. And then Emma calls to meet her in a Main Street music store.

The shop is completely cleaned out. Not an instrument in sight—just empty shelves and stands, the counter and the four bare walls left behind. The till, however, is untouched.

What would a thief want with half a dozen guitars and a grand piano, but care nothing about the money? And how did they pull off such a thing in broad daylight in the short time the poor owner was away for lunch? How come there are no witnesses? Someone's bound to have seen something. So they interview the other business owners along the street and find out nothing of use—except that a pair of size threes had gone missing from the shoemaker's the day before, but he'd never bothered reporting it, since it had been an ancient, unsellable pair of male size threes he'd been only too glad to be rid of.

All in all, it's busy and convoluted, a thousand threads running through the town seemingly at random. A pattern to be discerned here and there, but nothing to definitely confirm if they're dealing with a single scoundrel or an entire band. Is there a connection between all the misdeeds?

Robin crosses the threshold of their home with a head full of tricks and ploys to track down the rascal—rascals?—that clears the moment a cannonball with a wild mop of hair barrels into his legs.

"Papa, you're home!" he shouts, and with perhaps a tad more enthusiasm yet: "We're having pizza for dinner!"

Peanut wriggles unhappily in her pram, and Robin ponders the chances of securing a five-year-old on one arm and a fragile baby in the other when Regina emerges from the kitchen, a slice of cheesy pizza in one hand. She looks stunning and wondrously domestic with her hair pulled into a ponytail, a t-shirt instead of the usual costume blouse, and feet bare but for a pair of fuzzy, reindeer-patterned socks. She comes to the rescue, plucking Peanut from the snowsuit and cooing to her sweetly, smiling up at Robin when he plants a clumsy kiss on her cheek on his way to the kitchen with an ecstatic Roland riding piggyback. There's still a frazzled look about her, but she also seems content as she leans against the counter with Peanut in her arms and watches the three of them fondly.

Robin has news to share, but this seems not the time—Roland's class learned to make paper chains today, and _Papa, you gotsta hear all about it!_ Robin's new job is just going to have to wait. The part where he gets to share bad news of break-ins and mischief with the already overburdened Regina he's quite honestly all too glad to postpone. Until the children are all tucked in.

Regina is there for it all tonight—makes it a point to be. They switch things up a little, Robin being the one to cradle Peanut to sleep. She smells of baby shampoo and soft, pink skin, is all tiny fists grasping at fingers and hair and shiny lockets, pouty lips that secretly remind him of Regina for the attitude, and eyes Regina in turn swears are the very same shade of blue as Robin's.

It takes a lullaby or two of his old home and their new before it's safe to leave his sleepy little girl to her dreams in the sunshine yellow nursery.

He checks on the boys first, Roland fast asleep and Henry reading the latest _Spiderman_ comic, then heads to the master bedroom with that wonderful warmth settling in his heart that only his beloved can spark. It's easy to get used to, and he's gotten quite addicted to this life they're building together. Regina and he have developed a bit of a routine before sleep. They hold each other. Sometimes they talk, for a few minutes or a few hours; sometimes they kiss, sweetly or with sizzling heat. Sometimes they just lie entangled in an embrace—forehead to forehead, shaking off the troubles of the day, drawing comfort from the other's closeness. There's been too much separation for them—every little moment is precious.

But tonight, they're going without, for when Robin enters, Regina lies sprawled across the bed, changed out of her trousers but not the t-shirt, an empty glass on her nightstand next to a pack of Advil. She's out like a light.

Robin sighs and places a feather-light kiss on her temple before pulling the covers over her. He showers quickly and slips in also, fingers itching to smooth away the creases of worry on her brow. She must sense him there, feel his body heat perhaps, for she rolls over and presses her nose into his chest. They still get their little cocoon after all.

It doesn't last though. When he wakes an hour or two later, Regina's side of the bed is empty. Those blasted colourful lights are blinking into the night again, and Robin finds her in her study, curled up on the couch under three layers of blankets in a fitful slumber.

Perhaps it would be best to do what Robin Hood does and just steal the bloody things that keep robbing her of sleep.

* * *

Regina is drowning in work. She's snowed under worse than the streets of Storybrooke on Wednesday morning. Even though she has no regrets whatsoever over the afternoon with her boys and baby Peanut, she's paying dearly for the time she didn't spend poring over files trying to unearth funds to spare in impossibly tight and finite budgets.

And the demands keep coming in. Never before, she thinks as she swallows another Advil, have the people been this insufferable—and that's saying something. Leroy comes in twice a day to yell her head off for something or other, Snow is now sick with whatever bug poor little Neal is recovering from and unable to help, and Emma keeps bombarding her with unusually timely paperwork that contains nothing but bad news. Regina is working her ass off for these people, and so far it's proving to be a thankless job. She's going out of her way to accommodate everyone's needs, trying the impossible but pleasing no one.

The dull throbbing in her head is making letters and numbers swim before her eyes—a stinging, watery mess that makes getting anything substantial done quite unthinkable. God, she's tired, absolutely drained, she could go down for a nap right here in her chair. She just wants to sleep. Through the night. Without nightmares or blinking lights scaring the living soul out of her for the memories they bring back, electrifying and debilitating and filled with white-hot pain more blinding than any Christmas display.

And she hasn't been with Robin in what feels like forever— _really_ been with him, present in the moment. She cannot juggle long hours and playtime and homework and bedtime and Robin as well. Something must be sacrificed. God, she's an ungrateful bitch. He _died_ for her—no, not died. He did more than that, gave up his very soul so that hers would be salvaged. Against all odds, he's back, and back with her no less. She doesn't deserve it. Him. Or any of the wonderful people in her life. And how can she not find time for them?

Would Henry be better off spending the week at Emma's? She's busy, too, Regina knows that, but surely not this cranky, barely-holding-it-together mess about to explode or burst into tears. Does Henry wish he were spending the holidays with Emma? He hasn't said anything, but maybe he just wants to spare Regina's feelings. She's been on the verge of asking for days—but she's too much of a coward. She would survive the heartbreak, she knows that after the wretched missing year, even though she desperately wants to avoid the heartrending pain—but she couldn't hide the hurt from Henry, and that's not fair on him. He shouldn't be exposed to Regina's demons, he deserves better than that.

Maybe Robin and Roland would be happier with the rest of the Merry Men—they're a family in their own right after all, and the darling boy has known them since he was born.

Of course, she could just tell the overbearing citizens of this town exactly where to shove their ridiculous problems, and have the peaceful, simple family holiday she so desires but hasn't had for far too long.

But she's not going to quit on the town. She can't. Because while part of her brain is screaming _am I not doing enough, have I not done enough for these people already,_ the other reminds her that she owes the town a debt she can never pay. She'd terrorised and cursed an entire realm, transported them here, let them live their miserable false lives for decades. She cannot be so easily forgiven—the people, and the universe, seem adamant about that, and she secretly agrees. So she will work her ass off for them, and suffer in silence.

Her body is screaming for reprieve, but it's her soul that plagues her most, with its constant whisper of not-enough mired in more guilt than most would ever believe the once-evil queen capable of.

And Regina soldiers on, file after file, one nasty surprise after another, the pile of issues growing by the minute.

By the time she falls through the door of the dark mansion, she's lost the band, the choirs, the sound system, and the entire fun fair to theft, robbery, and sabotage—and she has no idea how to replace them.

The house is quiet, gone to sleep as she kicks off her heels and pads up the stairs with stockinged feet. Henry is sleeping with his hands thrown up either side of his head just like he used to as a baby, and Roland has his little arms wrapped tightly around Monkey. Peanut is awake in her crib though, miraculously quiet, stares at Regina with brilliant blue eyes so like her father's, and Regina's heart clenches. She resists the urge to lift her out of the crib, knowing it will only unsettle the baby at this point, and offers her the pacifier. Peanut smacks her lips in approval, and on the third pull, those brilliant blues flutter closed.

Regina shuts the door carefully behind her and goes in search of the other pair of those startling eyes. He's in their bedroom alright, awake despite the lateness of the hour.

"Hey," she breathes, grateful that her small voice can be blamed on the children sleeping rather than the fresh onslaught of guilt. Perhaps fear, but she won't acknowledge that.

"Hello, love."

Robin smiles, but it's not what she's used to—less somehow, and she panics. Is this it? Is he mad, as he has every right to be? Perhaps he's just tired. Peanut is a charmer, but she's also a temperamental one, and god knows what else he's been up to these days besides, and—

She has no idea what he's been doing. Didn't have the presence of mind to ask him yesterday, and then she fell asleep before he returned. She was loathe to leave his embrace, but there was no point taking away his sleep as well.

"There's a bit of lasagna in the fridge if you're hungry," he offers, ever thoughtful. "I'm afraid it's nowhere near as delicious as yours, having come from Granny's, but it should do."

"I'm not hungry." She was before when she set out for home, but now the very idea of food nauseates her. Robin frowns at her words though, an expression that only intensifies as she pulls a dozen files from her bag and sets them on the bedside table. "Just some work I brought."

"Regina, it's almost midnight. You've done enough work for one day. Please come rest. We can just get you some of those cookies if you prefer."

"No, you don't understand—everything is falling apart."

And she wanted to talk about him, not her work and her insecurities and her problems, but here she is, unable to stop the flow of words springing from frustration over more than her job. Work is the easiest to address and the most immediate issue, the least soul-baring, and so that's what floats to the surface.

"I know it is, but we're going to fix it."

"No, Robin—I've worked on this damn fair for weeks, and it was supposed to be ready to go on Monday, but ever since the Sunday leak incident, things have been exploding all around me, and now I have no music or rides. What I do have is a never-ending line of dissatisfied vendors. The Uncharmings are being no help at all, and I don't know what Sheriff Swan is doing, but—"

"We're trying to track down the person behind these attacks, and we finally have a trace."

Regina blinks. "We?"

"I've been meaning to tell you—"

"Then why didn't you?"

It is perfectly obvious why, and they both know it—she was asleep by the time he'd have had a chance to tell her anything. He's gracious enough not to say it out loud though, and his consideration even when she's being a mercurial nightmare churns up a well of self-loathing Regina never has to go too deep to draw from.

"Didn't Emma send anything over today?"

"Send what over?"

"She offered me a job yesterday, and I took it. I'm a deputy now. That way I can help catch this bastard."

Regina blinks. That is—unexpected. And a great fit, she can instantly tell, despite the irony of her legendary thief fulfilling sheriff duties. The forms in question must be in one of the files she's brought home with her.

"I was supposed to find out about this from official paperwork?" And she has no right—no right to feel hurt about this, and definitely not to begrudge him anything, because this isn't his fault. But this is an important step to him, and she wasn't part of it—the decision would always have been Robin's, but she would have liked to hear it from him, to know his thoughts, make sure he was doing it for his own sake rather than just hers or even Emma's as a favour to a friend. If this is something Robin truly wants to do. So the thought she'd failed him pains her, sets her even more on edge than she already was.

"No, of course not," Robin says softly. There's a tension about his shoulders though even as he tries once again to offer reassurance. "Regina, this person, whoever they are—and we _will_ find out—is trying to sabotage the Christmas fair."

There's a definite tone to his voice, one that tells her this is more than an informed guess. And the fact there is tangible evidence of someone in this town to whom her efforts mean nothing, who's so set on making her life a living hell that they don't care about collateral damage to the entire population (but isn't that just what the Evil Queen's revenge on Snow White had been like?), the thought that others might be complicit and the complaints she's been busting her butt to resolve might exist purely to torment her, breaks something in Regina.

Old habits die hard, and Regina is neither awake nor strong enough to fight her go-to coping mechanism: anger and snark.

"Oh really?" she sneers with just enough restraint to keep the exchange quiet for the sake of the children. "Who'd have thought? It's not like I've been working the whole week to clean up their mess!"

"I have noticed that, actually," Robin gives back in a stiff, strained voice. "You've been gone a fair bit—how could I not?"

If Regina were in a less agitated, more rational place, she would probably understand he's speaking from a place of affection and concern, but right now she only hears an echo of her own thoughts in his words, of judgement and reproach. Hot tears prickle and burn as she throws back a thoughtless:

"Have you been noticing your men as well, or just me? Because they do happen to have skills in this area, and—"

"As do I," Robin interjects, his voice rising for the first time. He's not yelling, not quite that, but doing the equivalent of shouting in what has so far been a hushed exchange. "Am I a suspect now?"

Regina winces—she doesn't know herself where she was going with the thoughtless accusation, but now there's a shadow of something in Robin's clear blue eyes. Anger, or dejection, or both. A hint of challenge, though not the playful type they've established in Storybrooke, but the more heated kind she'd sometimes draw out of him with incessant insults in the Enchanted Forest. This is why she doesn't deserve happiness—because she ruins everything she touches, without fail, every time. She wants to take her words back because of course it's absurd, of course neither Robin nor his friends are behind this fuckery—she'd yelled just earlier today at some poor citizen daring to insinuate such a thing. Regina yearns to apologise, and haul a fireball at the offending files on her nightstand to get rid of both the work and the pent-up magic crackling at her fingertips, to kiss away the hurt she's caused him and go to sleep spooned against his chest. But all that comes out instead is a weak, entirely inadequate, and way too delayed:

"Don't be ridiculous."

He's looking at her now, she can feel it, but she cannot face him, so whether it's with just disappointment or outright disgust she never knows, nor does she have the strength to find out. The rustle of the sheets tells her he's risen from the bed, and she catches him moving towards her from the corner of her eye. With bated breath she waits, unsure of what it is she wants to happen. He raises a hand as if to touch her shoulder, then thinks better of it. Perhaps it's better this way—she's a ticking bomb. Always has been. Only Robin's one of the few people whom that's never stopped before.

That seem to have changed now, because he passes her without another word, retrieves a pillow and a blanket from the wardrobe, and leaves the bedroom with a simple:

"Goodnight, Regina."

The moment the door closes behind him, the dam breaks, and Regina is crying her exhaustion and frustration and fear into the pillow like the pathetic person she is.

She cries and cries and cries until muffled sobs no longer wrack her body, and she sinks into a restless sleep.

And she dreams. Of Robin standing in a forest clearing before a screeching harpy swoops down on him and tears him apart with sharp claws and hooked beak. Of Robin sitting on the floor of her office with a glass of wine and a lovestruck look in his eyes—a look she's inspired—when the skeletal figure of Hades in a red Santa suit slithers out from the fireplace and stabs him to death with a sprig of mistletoe. Of Robin dying a thousand deaths because he has the misfortune of loving her.

Regina jolts awake covered in a mixture of cold sweat and hot tears streaming down her face, her throat and chest constricting with agony, and for a moment she's disoriented, remembers Hades and his wretched crystal and Robin's funeral, and wonders if he'd truly been returned to them or if that was just a part of her dreams, too.

The rush down the stairs is a harried, breakneck affair—but oh thank god, thank all the gods in all the realms because there he is, right on the living room couch, sleeping and breathing and wondrously alive.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she chokes as she runs two fingers over his stubbled cheek, just to touch, just to make sure he really is solid and alive and there.

Robin is a heavy sleeper, and doesn't wake.

* * *

Regina spends the rest of the night alternating between naps on the couch and spurs of handling paperwork behind her desk. Her office is blissfully dark and devoid of Christmas lights. She tries to avoid catching sight of the mistletoe above her door, under which Robin had kissed her to oblivion what now seems a lifetime ago but had in fact been no more than a week.

She didn't want to wake him, and any attempts to go back to sleep herself would have been futile, but she didn't want to wait to make amends either. So she left a message curled up and tucked under his pillow, a short note that says those two words playing on loop in her heart and mind ever since: _I'm sorry_. Not enough, but she hopes it will be to him, for a start.

It's barely seven when he texts, and Regina's stomach performs a series of wild, sickening twists and flips she fears may result in her losing the coffee she's been pouring into her tortured stomach for fuel.

 _As am I. Are you at work already, my love?_

 _My love_. So they're not over then, she hasn't destroyed everything.

 _Yes,_ she texts back, wiping furiously at the stray tear raining upon her wide grin, _I have been for a while. I'll be home early today. Perhaps we could indulge in a nice hot bath together once the children are asleep?_

His answer is instantaneous and eager: _That we shall. And thank you for that image, by the way—it's going to stay with me for the rest of the day. ;*_

Chuckling happily, Regina takes on the work with increased gusto. She calls Marco and enquires about any finished or nearly-so musical instruments available at his workshop—anything playable, really. Anything that will pass for music. He promises to have some ready for Saturday and breathe a word to no one. Then she enlists Archie to visit both rival choirs and try to mediate between them for a joint project, swearing them all to secrecy. If word doesn't get out about her fixing the shit someone is wilfully stirring up, they will have no chance to fuck her over all over again.

It takes her another hour or two to sort through the various complaints and requests, and Regina is just stepping out of the door, envisioning the soft candlelight and the fragrant, soapy bubbles she'll soon be soaking in, when her phone rings.

It's Robin—and he's calling from the hospital.

###

He'd spare her the trouble if he knew she won't hear about the accident before she sees him at home, but in a town rife with rumours and what with her being the mayor, that's rather futile hope. So he makes the call, thinking the fact that he is in a state fit to speak should at least ease her mind some. He makes it a point to tell her repeatedly that he's fine, that he only happened to be nearby and witness the accident, that he's really quite unharmed, because he knows Regina will be beside herself with worry—and she is.

She barges into the waiting room with the phone gripped in shaking hands, her face pulled into that expression that plainly reveals she's terrified and struggling to keep herself together, and it pulls at his heartstrings. It certainly doesn't help her distress any when her eyes immediately zero in on the scratches criss-crossing his bared arms—he stripped down to his tank top so they could treat the cuts to prevent infection.

"Got these when I was helping the chap from the wreck," he explains before she can even ask. "I'm alright, Regina, I promise. I'm not going anywhere."

He rests his forehead against hers, feels her erratic breathing, and knows all he can do to calm her is to just _be there_. And wait. For the battle raging in her, for the memories of losing him once, twice, three times, almost forever, to ebb away. That bloody Olympian Crystal had thrown them for a loop, left them both with fresh, stronger demons to grapple with, but they found a way to come back from it, and so here he is. Here they are, grounding each other, two soulmates each drawing strength from the other. She mutters apologies into his skin that he doesn't need to hear, and he confesses in return his regret over walking out on her when she was clearly distressed. It's fine, she sniffs, he had every right to be upset.

"We're okay," he vows, and, "we'll do better next time."

And they leave it at that.

"So how are they?" she clears her throat at long last, though she doesn't pull away just yet. "You said it's the Linguinis, right?"

"Luckily, all three of them have got off with only a few scratches and broken bones."

"Good. That's good." Her breath comes out on a sigh, tickling his neck, making him shiver. Or perhaps that's the cold—his hoodie lies discarded on the metal chair, sleeves torn beyond repair. Regina rubs up and down his arms sympathetically, eyes flashing as he winces slightly. "What happened?"

"Their van crashed right into the library wall. It's a bit of a mystery, actually. Emma's inside talking to them right now."

Once she's calm enough to trust herself with magic, Regina conjures up a hoodie for him—the blue one she favours because it brings out his eyes. Robin slips into it and zips it up to his chin. Regina suggests coyly she's quite willing to help warm him up some more if he needs it, and Robin accepts with a wiggle of his brows—something that never fails to put a smile on her face. Their lips brush softly, gentle pecks soon growing into a slow, sensual kiss. It's not often that Regina feels comfortable doing this in public, but there's not much of an audience, and she's stressed and spooked still, he can tell by the way she's gripping his hoodie as she holds him close.

They spring apart when they hear a door close, and Emma's already halfway across the waiting room.

"Cause unknown," she declares without preamble, "at least officially, but the van had been parked and Colette says the brake had been on. Whale says they'll be fine, but there's no way they can do the food stall in two days."

"I'll think of something," Regina says automatically, sounding resigned by now to the hellish nightmare this week has been. "Is that all you wanted to talk about?"

Emma shakes her head. "Is the Grinch real?"

"Excuse me?" Regina stares.

"Well Snow White and the Evil Queen are, and Captain Hook, and Robin Hood, and a bunch of other fairytale characters. So is the Grinch real, too?"

Robin thinks Emma does make a good point, but then he doesn't know this Grinch lad, and Regina seems to find the idea quite absurd judging by the rather dramatically sceptical face she pulls.

"Well, if he is we've never met," she drawls.

"Not to interrupt," Robin cuts in, "but just who is this Grinch type anyway?"

"You haven't seen _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ yet?"

"Robin doesn't like Dr Seuss," Regina grins at Emma, then offers him a short explanation. "The Grinch is a creature who hates Christmas. Especially the noise."

"Ah." Now it's beginning to make sense. "Our scoundrel's rid the town of music—and tampered with decorations."

"I do wish he'd at least have stolen the neighbours' lights," Regina grouses in and undertone, and Robin smirks. He quite agrees, but doubts she realises the dangerous ideas he's been having that her statement only encourages.

"What else?"

"He's kinda green," Emma shrugs, then glances at Robin in alarm—Zelena is a touchy subject. He'd prefer they don't address it at present though, wishes they could just skirt over it and proceed. Regina squeezes his arm supportively, and Emma hurriedly continues. "His heart is shrunken and his feet are small. Which would explain the shoe theft."

"Good luck finding this man with tiny feet and a heart disease, probably," Regina snarks. "Meanwhile, I'll need to unearth someone for that food stall. Granny can't feed the whole town—even though I'm sure she'd like to have us think that."

Emma jumps into the bug while Regina and Robin head for Regina's Mercedes, joined hands swinging between them.

"Now, my love, how about we go home and take that bath before bed?"

They never do make it to the bathtub though, for they get home to sniffling, sneezing children in need of hot tea, hearty soup and warm cuddles in front of the TV. Robin still finds Dr Seuss as nonsensical as Roland finds him hilarious, but he tells himself to watch to garner a better understanding of who their miscreant is and pick up clues as to how to catch him—and the rest of the lot certainly find his baffled commentary amusing enough that it's worth every befuddled moment.

* * *

Regina refuses to fret on Friday.

Snow is back after defeating whatever virus plagued her, and she offers to take over what she cheerfully refers to as _Santa School_ —rounding up the dozen fake Santa Clauses to give them instructions for the fair and beyond.

So Regina's search for a caterer is miraculously uninterrupted aside from a visit from Belle, who comes in to ask about plans to have the damaged library wall fixed. Unlike many before during Regina's week from hell, Belle is reasonable about matters that take higher priority at the moment, and they agree to meet in January to revisit the wall issue. Marco has confirmed he has several flutes and pipes and whatnot ready for the fair, and Archie has reported in on the choirs' willingness to band together for one day under the condition that the mayor's office provide new costumes. Regina is thinking red sweaters and green hats, or green sweater and red hats, and black slack to finish off a subtle and elegant no-fuss look she's already convinced the brave little tailor to provide in exchange for publicity. The rest of her time in the office is spent searching high and low for someone, anyone capable and willing, to step in last minute for the unfortunate Linguinis.

"All the Santas are ready for delivery," trills Snow happily around lunch, just as Regina is ending a phone call. "I even managed to turn a sour frown upside down—although I could have lived without the finger-drumming, but I guess he was just anxious to get out there and put his ho-ho-ho into practice."

"I've found her," Regina announces smugly. "Tiana Rose. Applied for a business licence to open a restaurant just recently. I fast-tracked it, and she's ready to provide free samples and sustenance at the fair tomorrow."

The door of Regina's office flies open again without so much as a knock, and in rush Emma, David, and Robin.

Emma brandishes a flash drive triumphantly. "Got the hospital records on everyone treated for heart disease."

"Did Whale release those to you just like that?" Regina is, quite frankly, scandalised rather than relieved. "What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"

Emma grimaces at David in a meaningful _I told you so_ manner, and David has the decency to shuffle uncomfortably under the double disapproving looks of both Regina and Snow before he admits: "Whale doesn't exactly know we have them."

"You're supposed to uphold the law, not set an example of breaking it!"

"Look," David bargains, "it's not like we want to abuse patient data. We just need to find our Grinch."

"We don't even know that he really has a heart disease. It's all just guesswork." Yes, Regina was actually the one to suggest that possibility, but that's just what is is—a possibility. Perhaps his heart is shrunk—in a world of magic, where a person can function without a beating heart in their chest, anything's possible. Perhaps all their conjectures are plain wrong. Hell, there may even be no Grinch.

"Maybe," Emma concedes, her exasperation barely contained behind the force-patient tone, "but everything fits. This guy's virtually untraceable. It's the best lead we have. I'm gonna delete everything the minute we have our perp."

Robin's been suspiciously quiet so far, and Regina wonders how he balances his code of honour with his lack of scruples about thieving for the greater good. Where does he stand on this? Probably with the Charmings. She exhales through her nose, hardly lessening the annoyance in her tone but softening it with an eyeroll because that baseless accusation she'd thrown at him before still bothers her.

"And I suppose you're compliant in this, too?" she chides mildly, edging slowly towards capitulation.

Robin gives the slightest hint of a smile—not a smirk, just an upturn of lips to let her know the unfortunate conflict from before is well and truly forgotten and they're talking strictly business now.

"Catching the villain before he does any more damage is our priority, yeah?" And then he tacks on: "If he eludes capture, he will be back next year."

Robin may keep his tone matter of fact, but damn if he doesn't know exactly how compelling that argument will be to her.

"They have a point, Regina," Snow jumps in. "This Grinch got three people into hospital—four if you count Robin. I don't think he'd meant to, but what if things get out of hand again and there are serious consequences?"

Of course Regina can see all that, but she's the Evil-Queen-turned-mayor trying to live up to the standards of a, well, hero, and these aren't exactly the tools heroes should employ. Except now she has none other than the town's greatest heroes advocating to use those measures. It is this very thing, the fact that she trusts these people, and not least of all the very real threat of another nightmarish holiday season in the coming years if this bastard isn't caught, that has her throwing up her hands in defeat.

"Fine. But if this gets out, you deal with the fallout. Being the heroes, you might just get away with it."

* * *

Christmas Eve morning greets them with freshly fallen snow and other minor nuisances.

Breakfast is a quick and messy affair, because Roland's wide, gleaming eyes keep trailing to the door, where his boots and mittens lie in a haphazard heap, ready for adventures in winter wonderland.

Their holiday cards arrive with a week's delay—they've quite forgotten about them amid all the chaos, and haven't thought to stop by the printing shop and ask what the holdup is. Robin just shrugs and presses a kiss to Regina's frown, quite correctly noting they can still give them out to everyone at the fair instead of posting them, and that sounds reasonable enough that Regina's forehead smooths out. A smile's playing on her lips as she rips the envelope open and remembers the day the pictures had been taken—little overexcited Roland unable to sit still for five seconds, a grinning Henry explaining the various little buttons and settings of the camera to an utterly fascinated Robin, and herself with a gurgling Peanut in her arms and a heart just about ready to burst with love. They couldn't get the timer right or the frame or the poses, and they spent hours goofing around and snapping picture after picture. Anxious anew to see the mementos from that precious day, Regina pulls out the stack of cards first—and stares in shock.

They're a blurry, pixelated mess. Every single one of the lot.

"That's not what they're supposed to look like, yeah?"

"Damn right it's not," she grouses as Robin thumbs though the photos as well, each a bigger mess than the last. "I'm going to murder the moron at the print shop."

"We'll have them redone," he soothes, "after the holidays. Let us not let this put a damper on this day."

She tells herself he's right, knows he is, but can't help the little sigh of disappointment anyway. Nothing beyond that though—they're just pictures after all, they'll get them reprinted again, and what matters is the real people she loves so much are right here with her. Well, Robin anyway—the boys are out in the back garden frolicking in the knee-deep snow, and Peanut's happily napping after her morning feeding.

They set about preparing dinner—they'll have a late lunch out at the fair, Regina's quite looking forward to trying some of Tiana's delicacies—to the soundtrack of softly playing Christmas music and elated shouts filtering in through the window opened to a crack. They peel potatoes and stuff the turkey that looks perilously large compared to the size of the oven. The secret seasoning mix of her own making that she favours so much needs replenishing, and she never remembers using up quite so much—there's barely enough to scrape off the bottom of the container, and she just knows dinner won't taste quite as it should. She tells herself it doesn't matter, that it will be decent enough—but the problem is she doesn't want decent, she wants delicious. There's not really any time to remedy the seasoning situation if she wants to be in time with dinner though, so she'll just have to suck it up. The turkey goes in just when the laundry is ready to come out, and Regina reluctantly disentangles herself from Robin's arms and leaves him to man the stove while she takes care of the laundry.

Once that load is out drying and the last one of pre-holiday laundry is in, Regina doesn't return to the kitchen immediately. Instead, she leans against the dryer and closes her eyes, head abuzz with the steady drone of the machine and her own nagging thoughts. Self-doubt has been rising in her all week ever since that unfortunate call on Sunday morning. She'd given the fair her all, and yet spent the past week patching up a thing here and another there, giving up sleep to gain precious time with their children and barely any worth mentioning with Robin. She's tired and overworked, and today was supposed to be a reprieve from all that as they made preparations together for the long-awaited Christmas Day.

Regina is a perfectionist. She'd been raised that way by her ever-demanding mother, for whom nothing Regina did was ever good enough. Hers isn't Cora's kind of perfectionism though—Regina doesn't fix the frosting on Roland's messy gingerbread men or right the slightly askew wreath hung by Henry, nor does she rearrange all the trimmings on the Christmas tree to make it look perfectly symmetrical. She's not overbearing—she's very conscious about not being overbearing like her own mother used to be. But herself she holds to the highest standard, and this is Robin and Roland's first proper Christmas, Regina's first Christmas with Henry after two years of pure torture (last year he was in New York with Emma, perfectly oblivious to the mourning mother realms away; the year before their relationship had already been under so much strain it had rubbed off on their holidays as well). And it's Peanut's very first—though she will remember none of it. Regina wants it to be perfect for _them_.

And she's coming up short.

The first stirrings of a headache have her reaching for an Advil by the time Peanut announces with resounding cries that she's very much awake and hungry again. Robin feeds and changes her with expert moves and gentle coos, and for a moment there she melts at the sight of them—he's the best father a child could wish for, and Daddy Robin never fails to make Regina's heart swell.

The serenity of the scene is gone the moment their boys come stumbling in on a breath of chilly air, cheeks and noses red, pants and jackets wet, shoes trailing fast-melting snow into the foyer. By the time they've settled down with blankets and cocoa and the sludge on her pristine floor is all cleaned up, there's a dishwasher to load, and apple pie to bake, and Roland's little Christmas tree to decorate.

The little tree has a big brother, a tall pine they decorated weeks ago now towering in the living room, but back at the tree farm the other day, Roland had begged with teary eyes to also take this tiny, garbled, almost bald thing home with them because _nobody wants him and that's not right 'cause every Christmas tree needs a home._ So take it they did, and now she can hear the boys pulling out boxes of tinsel as she goes about sprinkling cinnamon onto shredded apples. For a while she finds comfort in their animated chatter and the silence from the baby monitor suggesting Peanut's snoozing happily away.

Then that chatter turns into shouts of surprise and alarm, Roland screams _Papa, it's on fire!_ , and by the time the fire alarm goes off, Regina is halfway to the living room. The flaming object is stood on the mahogany coffee table, the fire licking the sturdy wood thankfully not enough for it to catch. Regina vanquishes the flames with a wave of her hand just as Robin rushes in with the fire extinguisher, leaving behind only a sad little mound of ashes on scorched wood.

"Are you okay?" she pants, panic subsiding slowly as no one seems to have sustained injuries, and then she rounds on Robin in a tone that's perhaps more aggressive than she means for it to be, but dammit, they gave her such a fright and her heart's still running amok: "What the hell happened?"

What happened, apparently, is for some reason the three of them had thought it would be a good idea to put not a chain of twinkling lights but actual candles on a very flammable tree.

On any other day, they might just laugh the whole thing off, but right now there's a dangerous prickle in her eyes that she can only hide for so long—which is why Robin shepherds the boys to the kitchen to help finish dinner. Roland's little shoulders slump as he glances at the remnants of the poor little tree, and Regina's fists clench. She wants him happy, and if that requires conjuring a brand new tree, then that's what she'll do. Hell, she'll give him enchanted candles, too, so that they don't burn up again. Later. When her magic is steady—when she is steady.

She follows them to the kitchen, deep breaths, tells herself it's just as well they're all there, perhaps they can repeat the sweet success and utter bliss of last Saturday. That's when she catches Roland's little voice whispering loudly, shattering her heart into a million pieces:

"Papa, why's Regina all grinchy all day?"

And Regina flees. All but runs for the laundry room to collect herself. She's not crying—not yet anyway. But she's close, very close with tears just barely clinging to her lashes. Has she been so mean? Has she destroyed Christmas for the little boy who's been talking about nothing else for the better part of a month, wide-eyed and enthralled with every single tradition introduced to him?

Regina breathes in, breathes out, mechanically retrieves item after item from the washing machine. Something woolly and long comes out of the metallic belly, a deep forest green sleeve that seems to go on forever. Regina groans—it's Robin's favourite sweater, and it's ruined. How it got there in the first place she has no clue, but it's stretched to about twice its size, and now he'll never be able to wear it again.

And that's the last straw.

###

Robin finds her curled up on the floor, hugging her knees as broken sobs wrack her body.

"Regina," he calls with his heart in his throat, kicking aside the soggy green pile lying at her feet, "what is it?"

"It's r-ruined," she sniffs as he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. She lets him, cries silently into his shoulder, trying to tamp down the sobs at least.

"What is?"

"Ever'thing," she mumbles into his shirt, and he thinks he detects a hint of self-deprecation for letting herself become this raw. She's come so far, his love, but she still has a hard time sometimes to not equate vulnerability with weakness.

"Regina, please tell me what's wrong. How can I help?"

"I ruined your sweater," she whimpers, wiping furiously at her tears.

That he didn't see coming.

The soaked heap of green suddenly makes sense, and Robin's heart lightens and clenches both at the same time.

"Oh, darling," he breathes, rubbing her back and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "It's okay, it's just a sweater."

Yet at the same time he knows it isn't—this can't just be about some winter-wear. This is the result of a week's worth of endless hours and ceaseless demands from left and right, of lack of sleep and lack of down-time Regina so prizes. It's more than any one person can take, and more than enough reason for a breakdown—but he can tell it's not the only reason. So he waits her out.

She pulls away just enough that they see eye to eye, her beautiful face blotchy and dark eyes brimming with more tears.

"Did—Did I ruin Christmas for everyone?"

Robin stares in shock at what's probably the very last thing he expected to hear. How could she possibly think that? All she's done is work harder than anyone in this town to make everyone's wishes come true, even at the cost of her own. And how can she not see? How can she doubt herself so?

His stunned silence is devastating, and Regina drops her eyes. A single tear lands on Robin's jeans, burning his skin like white-hot iron.

"Regina, no," he protests when he recovers at last, then more emphatically: "No, of course not."

"B-but Roland said—"

"Oh." Now Robin understands—and his heart aches for what she must be thinking. "My love, Roland said no such thing."

"Yes, he did. Robin, I heard him. He said I'm g-grinchy. And he was right."

"There may well be a Grinch in town, but it bloody well isn't you." He places a thumb to her chin and strokes gently, but doesn't force, only asks: "Look at me, Regina."

It takes her a moment to collect herself, and he lets her have it. But once she turns her tear-stained face to him, Robin clasps both her hands and presses a kiss to each.

"Roland did say you were a bit grinchy today," he admits, but holds her gaze and keeps talking before she can lower it again. "But he didn't mean it that way. He wasn't mad at you—he was worried."

"He was?" And for a moment she perks up—but only to then collapse into herself even more. "That's—I'm not sure that's much better."

Regina is miserable, and Robin can understand why. A parent's goal and desire is to see their child happy and well, not to be the cause of their distress. But just because he understands doesn't mean he approves, or that he'll tolerate for a second that she's putting even more pressure and blame upon herself.

"Roland loves you," he tells her, cupping her face gently, "and he hates to see you upset. And you have been. Tell me why? There have been no calls, no complaints today, yeah?" She's told him she'd warned everyone in no uncertain terms not to bother her on this day unless it's an absolute emergency, and as far as Robin's aware, there has been none.

Regina shakes her head.

"It's just," she sniffs, and Robin gives her waist a little squeeze in support, and she soldiers on. "Everything I touch goes wrong. Today was supposed to be about us welcoming Christmas together—about Henry rediscovering our little traditions, and about Roland and you getting to experience its magic for the first time. But now Roland doesn't have his tree, and we don't have our Christmas cards, and your sweater might make for a nice rag but certainly not much else. Dinner may be salvageable, but it's not what it should be. And I feel like I've killed all the excitement."

Robin presses a kiss to her lips—a quick peck that has her frowning slightly.

"I assure you you've done no such thing. We've two very excited boys in the kitchen, finishing that divine-looking apple pie of yours. There's only one thing missing."

Regina's eyes flash with panic, her words are feverish.

"That can't be, I had all the ingredients lined up, there can't be anyth—"

" _You_ , Regina."

Her eyes widen at his words, and she breathes a soft _oh_ , then gives him a tearful smile—slow, hesitant at first, but blooming with each passing moment, each stroke of his thumb on her cheek. This wonderful, wonderful woman is still constantly surprised when faced with the fact that she is loved and cherished and wanted, and it sends a familiar ache through Robin's chest. He vows once again to remind her as often as he can, as often as he needs to, until one day she will no longer blink in amazement to hear it. And then he'll remind her some more, just because he can.

"I guess we should head back then," she whispers, "the turkey will be ready."

Robin hums. "Just one last thing, m'lady."

She bites her lip like she knows what's coming, and of course she does—it must be written all over him, this desire to kiss her, to hold her, to help dissolve the last of her doubts and replace them with warmth. Then her soft smile morphs into a mischievous grin, and she's pulling him close and kissing him hard. It's passionate, and a little desperate, and a tad messy—but most pleasantly so. He cards his fingers through her hair (shorter now, and he still misses the old length sometimes for how he could tangle his hand in her luxurious locks, but this new cut is gorgeous too— _she_ is gorgeous), and she scratches gently at his scalp. Tongues slide against each other as the kiss goes from sizzling to savouring, sweet yet sensual. It soothes and it carries a promise.

They spring apart at the muffled sound of Peanut's wails underscored by the distant echo of hurried footsteps stomping down the stairs. They jump to their feet at once, and rush to the foyer.

"Kitchen," pants Henry as he braves the last three steps, bouncing Peanut in his arms distractedly, and so that's where they all head, Roland with his too-short legs trailing behind them all.

The kitchen is covered in thick, acrid smoke that had somehow failed to set off the smoke detector yet.

"We just went to get Peanut," Henry coughs by way of explanation, motioning to the baby monitor. "She was crying."

When Regina yanks the oven door open, more smoke pours forth, and Robin throws the window wide open to chase it out. Peanut gives a high-pitched little cry of surprise, and Roland jumps out of the way of her foot, losing his balance on the chair he's perched on to see. His elbow comes into contact with a slab of gingerbread—and in a blink of an eye, the magnificent house tumbles to the floor with a thud, and lies in ruins.

"Well," says Regina after the air has cleared enough to assess the damage, "it's a good thing there's going to be food at the fair."

The turkey's charred to a crisp.

###

For all it's worth, the fair at least turns out a raging success.

Families stream towards Main Street in clusters large and small—and Regina's is one of them. Her arm is looped through Henry's, and she marvels once again at how tall he's become, and that he's right there next to her instead of realms removed. Roland's skipping between her and Robin, swinging their arms as he clutches their hands clumsily in his mittens. Peanut's swaddled in the woven wrap strapped over Robin's shoulders, snuggled up to his chest and blissfully asleep despite the rising noise.

The Charmings are already gathered under the masterfully carved sign spelling _Ye Olde Christmas Fayre_ , three matching Christmas sweaters peering from their open coats. Baby Neal's snowsuit is all zipped up, thankfully, but his little hat has the same knitted pattern as the sweaters. Hook's sweater features a sprig of mistletoe surrounded by pouty lipsticked kisses with the word _MISTLESTONED_ arching above, and Regina rolls her eyes at the pirate's antics.

"People look happy," says Emma by way of greeting.

"They'd better be."

They move down the aisles together, weaving through the crowd and occasionally losing sight of each other. The fair grounds have a bit of everything: toys and clothes and ornaments, cider and punch and mulled wine in a dozen flavours, pottery and woodwork and blown glass, balloons and candy and Christmas carols coming from the square. Granny's stand's already developed a snaking line of hungry visitors, an both she and Ruby are busy serving up steaming plates and mugs. Tiana's queue isn't quite as long yet, but they still wait a good five minutes to order. The smiling young woman with curls and dimples recommends gumbo and beignets, so they have some of both, and Regina can tell immediately she's made the right call fast-tracking that business licence because both dishes are absolutely delicious.

With their bellies full, the adults' step grows languid and relaxed. Roland on the other hand is more energised than ever, and drags Regina and Robin by the hand towards the shooting range. Henry's eyes light up at the sight of the Ferris wheel towering over the town square, and after Regina's categorical refusal to venture near the thing, he goes off for a ride with Emma and David instead. The rest of them head to the shooting range, where the Merry Men are quite appropriately in charge. Robin wins Regina a stuffed unicorn, and Little John and Friar Tuck tease them both mercilessly—him for being a sap, which she quite agrees with; her for the blush that creeps up her cheek no matter how she tries to blame it on the frost nipping at her nose. She secretly enjoys this back and forth—knows it means they've accepted her, and that only stretches her smile wider.

"Regina," Snow tugs at her sleeve out of the blue, making her jump slightly, "is that Zelena over there by that table?"

She looks over to one of the picnic tables set up around the food stands, and sure enough, there Zelena is with her unmistakable shock of red curls, finishing what looks like a bowl of gumbo. The other tables are all packed, but Zelena has one all to herself, the townspeople giving her a wide berth even if it means they have to eat standing up. Regina's heart sinks—it's all too familiar. Not so long ago it would have been Regina, and there was a time she would have given anything for someone, anyone, to reach out to her—but no one would.

"Excuse me for a moment," she tells Snow, whose only answer is a sad, knowing little smile—the others never notice her slipping away, too engrossed in whatever jest they're laughing at merrily.

Regina slips onto the bench opposite her sister before the latter has a chance to respond to her greeting.

"Don't come here just because you feel sorry for me, Regina," Zelena drawls. "Or guilty, for that matter. I chose this, remember?"

She's hurting, Regina can tell by the harsh tone that's no longer the norm between the two of them. Zelena did choose this, but that does precious little to alleviate what residual guilt Regina still grapples with. Before either Robin or she plucked up courage to tackle the topic, Zelena suggested Peanut stay with them over the holidays. Then she went on to refuse the invitation the extending of which Regina was still debating, sentencing herself quite willingly to a lonely Christmas. This is her repentance, an attempt at some recompense at least for the wrongs she'd done to them, and Regina recognises it as such even though Zelena would never say so out loud—not yet anyway—and would perhaps scoff at the mere suggestion. It is primarily for Robin's sake that Regina is beyond grateful for this turn of events.

But she knows better than to bring the subject up, so she just pulls a small package tied by a piece of red ribbon from her pocket, and hands it to Zelena.

"Actually, I have something for you. I planned to drop it off on the way home."

"Oh," Zelena says, staring at the package with a scrunched up face and doing a horrible job of pretending not to be surprised and touched by the gesture. "Well, you'd have missed me. I'm not going home tonight."

Regina's puzzlement must be abundantly clear, because Zelena rolls her eyes. "Don't look so worried, Regina. I'm being a good girl and giving back to the community for the next twenty-four hours. Figured I might as well, since I'm not doing anything for Christmas anyway—at least I keep myself entertained."

"Doing what?"

"I offered myself as a volunteer at the hospital, but they wouldn't have me. Must have stolen one too many babies, I suppose. But the pet shelter was desperate enough to take even me." Zelena flings the plastic bowl into the bin and scoops up the package carefully. "Now don't make me late for my shift, sis. Go. They're waiting."

They are, Regina realises when she glances their way—both Snow and Robin are watching them from afar.

"Don't open it before tomorrow," she calls after Zelena's departing back.

She gets no answer—at least not until she's on her way as well, and turns at the sound of her name.

"Regina? Thanks."

With a nod and a small smile, Regina rejoins the rest of her family at the shooting range. Snow squeezes her arm, and Robin takes her to the side a little, his _are you alright?_ accompanied by a small frown.

She nods, then raises a hand to his cheek, scowling briefly at the glove acting as a barrier between his skin and hers.

"Are you?"

Because this part of their lives is hard, and messy, and will be for a while, but they're doing their best to negotiate it—together once again, just as they'd vowed to. Robin looks around, taking in his friends, his Merry Men, his son clamouring for attention and his daughter currently bounced in Will Scarlet's arms, his family and Regina's—and then his eyes bore into hers again, and his smile is bright and true.

"That I am," he tells her, pulls her close and busses her lips, then whispers: "Thank you."

"And you."

They spend the next hour or so strolling between stands, and end up buying a few gorgeous wood-carved ornaments at Marco's, a dog-eared used storybook for Roland at Belle's, all while taking pains to avoid the nuns' candle stand lest Regina haul an impulsive fireball at Blue. Henry's challenging grin and Roland's puppy eyes coax them towards the merry-go-round, and before Regina knows it, she's sitting on a brown horse holding hands with Robin in the saddle of a twin beast beside her, Roland and Henry in front of them squeezed into tiny air planes, Snow and Charming behind on white (Regina rolls her eyes, _of course_ ) horses. And round and round they go until she's dizzy, and giddy, and flushed—and happy.

All afternoon and into the evening, which continues with the ten of them sprawled in front of the fireplace of the mansion's living room feasting on freshly baked apple pie and decimated but tasty gingerbread, there's not a vexatious citizen in sight and no trace of the Grinch.

Perhaps, Regina thinks hazily as she sinks into sleep with Robin's chest pressed warm against her back, the world has finally righted itself.

* * *

Robin expected to be woken on Christmas Day by a rambunctious toddler bouncing with excitement and wonder—but he wakes to heartrending sobs instead, to a sniffling, utterly devastated Roland wiping his nose on his pyjama sleeve and murmuring something incomprehensible.

Robin swings his legs over the side of the bed and scoops his boy into his arms.

"Roland, what is it?"

Roland merely chokes on a sob, and by now Regina has crawled across the bed and settled at Robin's shoulder, pressing into his back as she hugs Roland with one arm and combs her fingers through his unruly curls.

"Sweetheart, did you have a nightmare?" she coos gently.

But Roland shakes his head, sniffles once more, then hangs his head as he stammers tearfully: "I—I was a b-bad boy."

Robin exchanges a worried look with Regina, who appears just as clueless as he is.

"How do you mean, Roland?"

"Santa d-dinin't b-bring me anything," Roland says brokenly, staring at his little toes. "Not even coal. I must be very very bad."

"Honey, that's not true," Regina soothes. " Of course Santa brought you something—you've been a very good little boy. Have you looked under the tree?"

They'd snuck down together once the children had gone to sleep last night, Regina and him, to place the presents under the tree and decorate the tiny, measly one Robin had procured in secret at the fair for Roland. There the two trees had stood side by side, a giant and a midget, aglow with twinkling lights and enchanted candles, colourful parcels laid out carefully beneath the fragrant branches.

Regina's question only seems to upset Roland anew.

"It's g-gone," he whines. "Santa must have took it. That's 'cause I'm the baddest."

"The presents are gone?" Robin repeats, brow furrowed.

"Not just the presents," says Henry from the doorway, a deep frown etched into his brow. "Presents, tree, stockings, decorations—even yesterday's leftovers. Everything's disappeared."

With a distinct sense of foreboding, Robin watches Regina pick up her phone at the exact same moment his own rings.

All Christmas-related items are gone from the Charmings' loft as well, and Emma's receiving call after call from distressed denizens reporting the very same issue.

"I may be wrong," Robin growls, "but I think our Grinch just stole Christmas."

###

"This is bullshit," blurts Emma, her closed fist slamming into the keyboard.

"Emma!" Snow chastises to no effect whatsoever as Emma keeps grousing.

"These records are in the stupidest format I've ever seen. They're gonna take ages to go through. Someone should work out a better system for medical record-keeping."

"Well, it's not designed for convenience of information theft," Regina snaps, pacing the length of the office back and forth, threatening to wear a hole into the floor. "We need to split up."

"No, we're stronger as a team," Snow returns immediately, and it's one of those times Robin can quite clearly see why Regina is sometimes so frustrated with the princess.

"As a team," David suggests before Regina can fire back a retort, "we need to cover more ground."

"Another thing we need," Regina hisses, "is to keep our voices down about illegally obtained, shoddy evidence while there's people around."

They're gathered in the mayor's office, the very same team as last night, but the atmosphere couldn't be in starker contrast to the festive vibes of Christmas Eve. By now everyone has muted their phones due to the incessant ringing, and a bunch of men with cameras and other contraptions Robin doesn't know the purpose of have streamed into the room, setting up their suspicious apparatuses and pointing them at Regina's chair. She quits her pacing shortly and takes her place behind the desk, clasps her hands in front of her and schools her features into a mask of poise and composure. This whole spectacle is to calm the masses after all, and to give them the tools to help catch the scoundrel behind this foul ploy.

"Quiet back there!" shouts a man sporting a _Good Morning Storybrooke_ shirt. "Three, two, one—we're live from city hall!"

"Citizens of Storybrooke," Regina begins her address, "today Storybrooke is under an official Vile Grinch Watch. Christmas has indeed been stolen, and there's reason to believe the culprit is," and here Regina barely contains a scoff, as if she could not believe that the Grinch of all creatures is next in the long line of villains pestering her town, "one Mr Grinch, whose Storybrooke identity remains unknown for now. You should be prepared with words of comfort for young children, who are especially hit by these events." Her eyes flick briefly to where Roland is curled up into Robin's side, asleep after the earlier calamity. "Remember, your sheriff department and mayor's office are managing the situation and together—" Regina pauses, her hand flying to her ear, and the odd little object she's inserted there before must be talking to her, for she resumes with: "I'm being told there's been a reindeer sighting. The animal is approaching the town centre from the north. Refrain from panic and despair and please do not leave any cookies or milk out. If you have any Christmas items left in your home, please secure them in a safe place. Stay strong, Storybrooke."

"A reindeer sighting?" Hook jeers the moment the spectacle's over. "Is this a joke?"

Regina rounds on him at once: "Do I look like I'm in a funny mood?"

Sensing things really heating up, Robin slips carefully from Roland's embrace, but Emma's already stepping between the two.

"Okay, guys, everybody relax. We need a plan."

Robin's phone vibrates in his pocket, and he frowns when he pulls it out—whatever is Zelena calling him for?

"She probably wants you," he says as he hands the thing to Regina like a hot potato. "You being unreachable and all."

It turns out the reindeer report is a bust—the animal is actually a stray dog with one of those silly holiday headbands on. He's not wearing a collar or a tag, and his chip lacks the owner's contact information, so the pet shelter will be keeping the poor mutt until the owner shows up. The dog's name, according to this chip, is Max. The group exchange knowing looks, and Regina asks Zelena to call immediately should the owner appear.

They're not putting all their coin on the Grinch just walking into Storybrooke Pet Shelter in the next few hours though, and so split they do. Granny agrees to babysit while Ruby picks up the slack at the diner (which only serves non-holiday-related foods). Henry, with Regina's most reluctant approval, takes it upon himself to scour through endless data on the computer. The rest of them spend the better part of the day running up and down the distraught town, chasing clues that prove to be false trails more oft than not.

As their breathless race to catch the villain continues without anything to show for it, the townspeople are becoming more agitated and unpleasant by the minute. By the afternoon, clusters of restless citizens have gathered in the streets, and a few signs even go up. _Bring back Christmas. Down with the Grinch. Give Us Our Gifts Back Now._ They're impatient, and demanding, and critical.

And Robin is fuming.

The only thing he wanted from this bloody holiday was to enjoy a good time with his family and friends, to roast chestnuts and make s'mores, maybe have a fireside picnic following a snowball fight. To feel at home and secure and at peace after all the bloody mess he—and they—have been through. But instead of massaging the kinks from Regina's overtaxed shoulders, he's forced to watch her fold herself in half for these people—and still it isn't enough.

Because the brunt of their anger once again befalls Regina. Her phone doesn't seem to stop ringing, and the most Robin sees of her is swirls of purple smoke as she keeps puffing herself to the more remote locations in an attempt to snatch the Grinch before he's the chance to escape.

They complain to Emma as well, yes, and Snow and David, and they pester Robin about the lack of results, too; but they are complained _to_ and not _about_ , nor are they blamed or viciously attacked the way Regina is. Not Hook, a former villain running around as aimlessly and ineffectually as the rest of the heroes, nor the Dark One, who merely observes the happenings grimly from his shop without being any help at all, draws any criticism to speak of. Not one of them—only Regina. Always Regina, who's been staking her life and working her fingers to the bone to undo the past and secure a better future. Not a bloody word of thanks for all the work on their blasted fair. And Robin is just about done with it, and holding on by a thread, trying to channel his anger and frustration into tracking down this sodding thief that's giving even Robin Hood a run for his money.

"We need to get those people out of here," Regina's voice says somewhere behind him, and the last of the purple smoke hasn't even cleared yet when Robin turns around to look into her tired eyes. He reaches for her automatically, his rage on her behalf boiling hotter, and draws her to him. She leans in to peck his lips and keeps their hands joined, but she's distracted, her eyes already flitting and scanning the crowd.

David nods and steps up to the empty stage, upon which the town's Christmas tree towered just last night.

"People, people—hey!" A sharp whistle finally silences the roiling crowd—and it comes from Snow, no less. "Will you please clear the streets so that we can work. Go back to your homes, and only report when you see something relevant. Go home!" But the crowd is buzzing and booing, so David tries to reassure them with a hasty: "Don't worry—we'll keep looking!"

That's when realisation hits—Robin doesn't really want to look anymore. He's tired and cold, and he misses his children something awful—and when he looks around, the others seem to be faring no better.

And then some blubbering idiot shoves a sign in their faces that reads: _Mayor = Major Pain & Minor Gain._

"Actually," Robin says loud and clear, "we shall not."

The crowd goes quiet at this unexpected turn. Regina whispers a flummoxed _Robin?_ , and Robin squeezes her hand before he lets go and climbs the stage.

"Before you return to your homes—or don't—I've something to say to you."

Whatever it is that makes it so—surprise or caution at the hot fury and bitter disappointment undoubtedly written over his face—the silence is so complete you could hear a pin drop. Robin takes a deep breath to cool his head, and proceeds to speak his heart.

"As most of you know, I'm fairly new to this town. I'm still only learning about the customs and ways of this world. Thankfully, I've some brilliant teachers, and Henry here," Robin nods in the direction of the lad, who's only just pushed his way through the crowd and appeared by his mothers' side, "has compiled a thorough list of films and books to help Roland and me understand what Christmas is all about." Henry grins up at him, and Regina gives them both a fond though still puzzled smile. "What I've gathered from these stories is that Christmas is a celebration of love, and peace, and togetherness. Yes, I am well aware that Christmas comes with its own traditions. I've been schooled about trees and gifts and mistletoe, about fairs and parades and such—but every last one of those stories has taught me these are only secondary. That there's something called 'theChristmas spirit', which resides in our hearts." He pauses for effect, looking them all over sharply. "And yet that is not what I've seen this past week—and it's certainly not what I'm seeing now."

The assembled shift collectively, an uncomfortable murmur rippling through the crowd.

"All I've seen," Robin continues, not at all pacified by the stirrings of realisation and the indignation of a few, "is people squabbling about fair slots, fighting about trifles, and overall dwelling on the most insignificant trivialities. Your mayor's gone out of her way to please you all, and still it isn't enough. Your sheriff's been righting the pettiest wrongs, and still it isn't enough. We're out here, all of us," Robin's eyes seek out each of their group as he speaks, "trying to retrieve Christmas for you—and for what?"

A few shouts of protest rise from the crowd, but Robin couldn't care less and plunges on with passion and righteous indignation.

"Christmas cannot be stolen. The Grinch didn't steal Christmas. _You_ stole Christmas—you deprived yourselves of it by spending the entire day in the streets, worrying and complaining, while you could have enjoyed this time with your families and your friends. Stop looking for a scapegoat. This is on _you_."

"And we," Robin glances at the group again, and his heart swells when he spots Roland and Peanut with Regina and Henry, John and Tuck and a few other standing with them—and gods, did he miss the lot. Little Neal's cradled in Snow's arms, and Granny's giving Robin an approving nod nearby. Somehow the sight of them there finally dissolves the lividness within Robin and leaves only the urge to get through to all these people.

"While we're out here trying to retrieve what doesn't—shouldn't—even matter, we haven't seen our children all day long. Hell, I haven't exchanged more than a handful of sentences with my friends while running around chasing a phantom. There will be time enough later to catch the scoundrel responsible for sabotaging the fair and stealing our property. But that's just what it is—property. They're only things. I miss my children, and I miss my family, and I miss my friends. And I'm going to change that. I am going home now—and so should you."

And with that, Robin turns to step off the stage, quite oblivious to the crowd's stunned silence as Regina, eyes blazing, grabs him by the hand and pulls him off the stage and right into a fierce kiss. Someone whoops. Another begins to clap, and it spreads slowly, grows stronger as more hands join in the applause—whether they're applauding his speech or their mayor's uncharacteristic public show of affection Robin neither knows nor cares as he grins against her lips. Roland is in Regina's arms all of a sudden, all shining eyes and toothy grin as Regina plants a kiss on his cheek now, and Henry looks rather proud of his mother and happy with Robin—and perhaps with himself for imparting this wisdom on him in the first place.

Then, just like that, the applause peters out as whispers rise.

Someone's mounted the stage.

"That's him!" Henry exclaims, brandishing a crumpled piece of paper. "I knew it!"

"Santa?" cries Roland, eyes like plates as he twists and stretches on Regina's hip.

The man indeed has donned the fur-trimmed costume of the red, rotund Christmas fellow, but under the fake beard he's everything but jolly. His skin's pale with a greenish tinge—or perhaps that's just the lights? He stomps his feet to get rid of the clinging snow—remarkably small feet for a man of his stature—and bloody hell, it's _him_.

"Name's Hugo Hoover," croaks the man, "better known as the Grinch. That's right—it is I who stole your Christmas."

###

"But why, Mister Grinch? Why?" Roland's little voice demands.

The man currently huddled in a chair at the sheriff station, surrounded by Charmings and Merry Men alike, gives him a baleful, though not necessarily malevolent look—and tells all.

About the first Christmas in uncursed Storybrooke awakening ancient magic in the Grinch that's nigh-impossible to trace. Since no one seemed to remember the true meaning of Christmas, the Grinch set out to do what the Grinch does—wear a sour frown while he slithered and slunk to magic the commercialised little holiday away. Hugo Hoover, 59, resident of Hooting Hut up the mountain, suffering from migraines as well as something called small heart syndrome, signed up to pose as one of the town's fake Santas (they have a bit of explaining to do for Roland's sake here) enlisting his only companion, his trusty dog Max, as a spy and decoy on this little mission. His endeavours were crowned with success, yet the fruit of his labour turned bitter when Max went missing. And then somebody with a fresh perspective—Robin—stepped up and called for the rest to remember the true message of Christmas—cue for Hugo Hoover to give himself up just before Henry could expose him.

Not that he's anything better to do, he mumbles. Rotting in jail isn't particularly festive, but with Max gone, what difference does it make?

But Hugo Hoover doesn't spend the rest of Christmas Day in a holding cell. He relocates to city hall with the lot of them, blinking in surprise when Roland's invitation to dinner is wholeheartedly embraced by the rest of the party. After a quick phone call to the pet shelter, he's reunited with his canine companion, and keeps surreptitiously dropping bits of Granny's lasagna on the marble floor of Regina's office for Max to lick clean. They gorge on pizza, and Chinese, and ice cream for dessert, and play as many rounds of charades as they can fit until the wee hours of the morning. e can't give them their Christmas trifles back, Hugo says tearfully by the end of the night, but swears solemnly that he would if he could—oh how he would!

"This was the bestest Christmas," Roland sighs with a drowsy smile.

The sun's waking when they retire to their homes for sleep. A sprig of mistletoe brushes Robin's arm as he holds the door for Regina carrying an armful of dozing Roland.

Wait—mistletoe?

"Mom, Robin," Henry whisper-shouts to safeguard Peanut's sleep, "look at this."

And there in the living room stands their tree—both of them in fact, tall and small—blinking its lights at them and the pile of presents underneath.

Christmas magic, all around.

* * *

Storybrooke looks like a fairy tale. Banks of snow adorn the streets and glimmer pristine in the pale December sun, mailboxes and fences capped with the white fluff that the sky simply won't stop sprinkling upon the town. Fat flakes float down upon sleepy streets, turning them into perfect sledding paths.

Sledding is a thing of days past, however—at least for the littlest Locksley man, whose button nose is presently pressed to the window as his warm breath paints over the elaborate patterns of frost. Roland wants to learn to ride his shiny new bicycle at last, and Robin's taken it upon himself to make the conditions favourable. That is how he's ended up outside, wielding a snow shovel and fighting an uphill battle with the element that just keeps replenishing itself.

Roland's is not the only nose pressed against the windowpane—Regina cannot tear herself away either, though her captivation is less with the yellow bike and more with the devilishly handsome man clearing a path for it. It feels vaguely inappropriate to stare so openly with Roland just feet away, but she cannot help it. Robin is very covered, a thick winter jacket keeping him warm as he works away tirelessly, but Regina still cannot shake the vivid visual of those lovely muscles tensing with each stroke of his wonderful arms, of his back rippling with the effort, his abs deliciously defined at every which move. She shouldn't be this turned on by a bundled up Robin perhaps, but it's been a while, and she's only human after all. Their children will be none the wiser, and so she'll enjoy the view at least. Just the view for now. Later, when the children are with Emma and Little John—well, that is another story entirely, and one that has Regina licking her lips in anticipation.

But for now, Roland and his bike take precedence. Soon the precious boy is biting his lips in concentration, little face screwed up as he tries with all his might to follow instructions, to both keep his balance astride the bike and steer it far from the green hedges of the mansion's front garden. The former he gets the hang of rather quickly, but the latter is a bit of an issue once his excitement has mounted, and Regina is soon consoling the upset toddler, promising him that the bushes will definitely soon recover from the collision just as well as he will. Henry assures Roland he'd crashed plenty of times when he'd been learning, and besides, Roland has exquisite padding thanks to his snowsuit. A half hour later, Roland is whizzing up and down the path to the cheers of the rest of them, even Peanut gurgling happily from Robin's arms. It takes an increasingly vigorous snowfall that covers his racetrack almost beyond recognition to get him inside to warm up before the next adventure.

"Regina, can I have cinnamon in my milk as well?" he asks, frost-nipped cheeks peeking from behind the counter.

"Of course you can, sweetheart," she beams at him, his request none too shocking—as much as he looks up to Henry, she's actually surprised Roland hasn't started asking for cinnamon sooner.

"Now, my boy," Robin bops his nose, "you be good for Little John, alright?"

Roland nods vigorously, eager hands reaching to take the mug from Regina.

"I wish I could try those new roller skates," Henry sighs, topping his cocoa with a generous dollop of whipped cream. "I know it's the best we can do right now, but the ice rink's just not the same."

"Is this Violet's first time skating?" Regina asks in what she hopes is a casual tone—it's still hard to wrap her head around the concept of her little prince dating.

"Yeah. I can't wait to teach her. I just hope she likes it."

"I'm sure she'll love it." Regina sips on her coffee, surveying Henry over the rim of her cup—the little crease in his forehead still lingers. So she tacks on: "And if not, that's okay, too, you know. You'll find something else you both enjoy."

Henry seems to consider that for a bit, then his face clears and he cracks a smile.

"Thanks, Mom."

Regina chuckles warmly and reaches to wipe a smidgen of cocoa off Henry's face. His answering eyeroll is so very like hers it has both Roland and Robin burst into laughter.

They're busy packing clothes and toys for the trio, wrestling Peanut into her horsey snowsuit and reasoning with Roland about his stuffed monkey's need of one of its own, until the very moment the doorbell rings. Emma and Little John stand on the porch while goodbyes are said with hugs and kisses, and then Robin is looping an arm around Regina as they watch their retreating backs and wave vigorously all three times Roland turns back to test if they're still there giving them a proper send-off. And then they disappear behind the gate, and Regina and Robin are alone.

###

How long, she wonders in a daze, have they been at it now? Her, addle-brained and weak-kneed from being so thoroughly kissed; him, trailing deft hands up and down her sides in tantalising passes, never venturing past the point of teasing?

They hadn't even made it past the foyer, had indeed barely closed the front door before Robin's lips were on hers—a contact they'd both been starving for it seems, for neither's been keen to move or indeed to stop sampling the other's kisses a moment longer than absolutely necessary to breathe. So here Regina is, pressed up against the front door, under one of the many springs of mistletoe hung all over the mansion by the same magic that had returned their tree and gifts.

Robin's lips are magic, she thinks briefly before her mind goes blissfully blank again, giving in to the delicious taste and feel of him. His hands are pure sin, stroking and gripping and teasing wonderfully, tortuously, as heat pools low in Regina's belly and spreads—from her flaming cheeks all the way to her tingling fingers, deep in her chest and flush on her skin. One last toe-curling pass of his tongue alongside hers and he's breaking the languid, sensual kiss—and why oh why would he do such a thing? The sudden action draws a whimper out of her and a chuckle in turn out of him that vibrates against her jaw. Smirking still in that infuriatingly attractive manner of his, Robin sets to nipping and sucking kisses down the column of her throat—and oh, okay, that's fine, that's— _oh_.

He lingers at her pulse point, scraping his teeth against sensitive skin just so, just the way he knows drives her absolutely mad, and she rolls her hips in a knee-jerk reaction that has him groaning into her neck. Serves him right, Regina smirks evilly, and grinds against him with purpose this time, a soft moan escaping her at the feel of him hard and ready.

"We've—ah—we've all night long, my love," he reminds her low in his throat, the roughness of his voice yet another piece of evidence of how far gone he truly is.

"That may be," she husks into his ear, "but I'm an impatient woman." Impatient, and starved, and frustrated with the excessive amount of clothing they're both wearing—and why exactly are they still both fully dressed? True to her word, she moves to rectify the situation and reaches between them, goes right for his belt, light fingers brushing his erection accidentally on purpose.

"Not yet," Robin breathes, since normal speech seems beyond the realm of possibility at this point. "I—" he shivers as she teases him again, "I want to savour you."

"But I want you now," she pouts because she just won't have that, she can't—and rolls her hips against him for good measure, a wicked glint in her eyes at the primal sounds her simple manoeuvre elicits.

"Then you shall have me," he soothes, batting her hands away from his fly at the same time, and befuddled as she is, Regina doesn't understand at first, frowns at the contradiction—until his fingers trail down her side and slip under her sweater, splaying and stroking and toying with the band of her pants.

Regina whimpers at the sensation of even the small amount of skin on skin, and damn him for taking his sweet damn time when she's desperate for something, anything, to relieve the throbbing need down low. She shifts slightly, adjusts her stance, grinds against the thigh he's mercifully wedged between her legs at last. Moans when he bites her earlobe gently, and oh that's just not fair, the bastard—

"Gods, you're sexy," he dares tell her—or rather, groan into her—even as he continues to make her all hot and bothered and refuses still to do anything of substance about it.

Frustrated beyond measure, Regina pushes at his chest furiously. Robin stops his ministrations at once, his features arranging into a look of utter confusion that she has very little sympathy for in her current state.

"Regina, are you al—"

"No, I'm not alright," she grouses as she reaches for the hem of her damn sweater and pulls it off over her head, tossing soft cashmere to the floor unceremoniously, and makes quick work of Robin's henley shirt next, stripping him to the waist. Robin blinks, and Regina thrusts out her chest, fully aware of the effect her breasts must have on him in the lacey bra she picked specifically with this in mind. "What are you going to do about it?" she purrs as she cups her breasts and squeezes, throwing her head back on a moan.

"Fuck," Robin hisses, swallowing thickly—and that's what he gets for steering clear on purpose of areas that desperately need stimulation, for neglecting them until now only to whip up her desire. And _fuck_ again—and that's exactly what she wants him to do, and is that really too much to ask?

Pulling him to her by the loops of his jeans, Regina plants a searing kiss on his lips, sucking on the bottom one and nipping, biting down on it with just enough force to have him whimper and groan and buck his hips into her, thrusting against her again and again as she runs her nails down his broad back, their torsos now flush together—and good, that's good, payback is fair play, she'll have him just as flustered as he has her if it is the last thing—

She moans, a loud, wanton sound, as his fingers find a nipple through the flimsy fabric and roll, "Robin, I need—"

"My tongue?" he offers in little less than a growl, yet still managing to sound smug somehow.

And okay, she'll take it, she'll take whatever he's willing to give at fucking last, because the rhythmical grinding is nowhere near enough to ease the acute need just about burning her up. So she nods vigorously even though he can't see, his face presently buried in her chest, kissing from her clavicle down between her breasts and nipping at the tops of the swells, still stubbornly stopping just shy of the fabric and refusing to remove it even though she knows how much he loves—oh god, his hands, they're moving down, fucking finally, gripping her hips and undoing her pants, yanking impatiently as if he weren't the one making them both wait with his stupid teasing.

When cold, empty air replaces the warm press of his skin upon hers, Regina opens her eyes and glowers, about a nanosecond away from incinerating him on the spot.

"What do you think you're d—" But his face shuts her up mid-sentence—slack-jawed, wide-eyed, the brilliant blue of his eyes dark with desire as his hungry gaze rakes all over her, taking in matching royal blue bra, panties, and garters. He's an absolute sucker for garters, and Regina shivers pleasantly as he licks his lips, smiles coyly at him and strikes a provocative pose that showcases her legs, still clad in the high heels she's impractically worn all day with exactly this moment in mind.

"Goddess," he whispers—and kneels to worship her.

And boy, does he ever. The panties come off at last, and they moan in unison when he runs his fingers through her slick folds as he trails kisses over her thighs, making his way slowly, much too slowly, to where she's throbbing with need. When he finally gives her a long, flat, luxurious lick, the contact is so electrifying after the infinite wait that Regina's knees buckle and she slides several inches down the door before Robin's arm loops around her waist to hold her up.

"More," she demands breathlessly, and thankfully, blissfully, he complies. He licks and licks like a starving man, peppers kisses all over her as his fingers wander towards her heretofore neglected clit, pressing down upon it in a way that makes her cry out. And then, when her nails scrabble against his shoulders and her fingers spasm and tug at his hair in a silent plea, he sucks. God, those sucking kisses, alternating between long and hard and barely there, she needs—she needs—oh fuck, his mouth is a marvel—she's—she's going to—

Regina comes with a keening cry, comes hard on Robin's tongue as he keeps thrusting into her while his wonderful fingers work her clit still, until it's too much and she pushes him away—or rather pulls him up to her, throwing herself into a sloppy, messy kiss that has her moaning anew when she tastes herself on him.

Panting, they stand with their foreheads joined, Robin's arm still firm and secure around her while her legs have been reduced to jelly, his hand tangling in her mussed hair. The faint tones of Christmas music are drifting from the kitchen, and Regina chuckles when she recognises the raunchy lyrics of _Naughty Would Be Nice For Christmas_ —they were indeed caught playing naughty under the mistletoe in this little tryst that is by no means over. There's plenty of mistletoe to go around in this house after all, and Robin's still rock hard against her belly.

Regina sneaks a hand down Robin's front and into his pants and strokes him lazily, earning herself a hiss as she bites her lip.

"Let's move," she suggests thickly—she's still turned on herself, knows it won't take much for her to light up and burn again.

Robin nods once, his breathing heavy, laboured, and no wonder with the teasing touch she keeps on his cock through his boxer shorts. He steps back and out of his pants, pulling her with him, unwilling just as she is to let go, seeking her lips as soon as her back leaves the surface of the door. She follows him blindly, moaning into his mouth when he unclasps the hook of her bra—and yes, that's good, she wants it off, wants it gone, wants nothing between his skin and hers. But the stupid garment is stuck between them, and she growls in frustration as she pulls back an inch to throw it aside—and blinks in surprise.

They're no longer in the foyer, but neither have they moved towards the staircase or even the living room.

"Kitchen?" she questions, her eyebrow raised.

Robin gives her a suggestive smirk, that curl of the lips that drove her crazy back in the Enchanted Forest and would no doubt stir up her libido regardless of the realm. Biting his lip—fuck him, he knows what that does to her—he points to the mistletoe above the door, and Regina shivers as her body flames up white-hot, his promise of days before to ravish her in every single room boasting the plant fanning her arousal. But there's more, more to slowly rob her of her senses—how he has the presence of mind with her hand down his boxer briefs pumping him idly, she'll never know—as he continues in a low, raspy voice.

"I'm not done feasting on you, Regina, and I'd rather spare the furniture."

Regina swallows, her mouth dry, eyes flicking to his lips. How does he have her so riled up again so quickly? Struggling for some semblance of control, she remembers the bra clutched to her chest, and drags it away, inch by sweet inch. Robin's breath hitches at the sight of her bare before him but for the garters and the heels, and the effect she has on him even though this isn't by far the first time he sees her naked never ceases to make her heart soar with love for this wonderful, wonderful man.

"And what would you do to me?" she challenges, though her voice wavers slightly with emotion.

Robin captures her lips in a soft, sweet, surprisingly brief kiss before he answers, all innocence.

"I want to dribble eggnog all over your gorgeous body," he tells her, hands coasting up her belly with deliberation. "To lick off every last drop," he continues, flicking her nipples with his thumbs and making her gasp, "until I get drunk on you."

"Oh, is that all?" she struggles to flirt, far too breathless when he's finally, finally giving her breasts the attention they so crave.

He never misses a beat when he backs her into the kitchen table and hoists her up, her bare ass now resting on the smooth surface as he stands between her open legs, drinking her in with blown-back pupils.

"And then I'll ravish you," he rasps, not as unaffected as he would pretend to be, "right here on this table, until you scream my name. Does that sound appealing?"

Regina nods feverishly, barely managing an _uh-huh_ even as Robin retreats to the fridge and returns within seconds with a bottle of eggnog and not a stitch of clothing on, his boxer briefs discarded along the way somewhere.

He's true to his word, her honourable thief. Lets generous amounts of the thick liquid, cool as Regina is hot, trickle down her neck and chest, then leans in and takes one pert nipple into his mouth. A chorus of whimpers and moans follows in the wake of his tongue swirling and laving all over her breasts, sucking every sweet molecule of alcohol off her until she's a writhing, gasping mess.

"Robin," she whines, locking her legs around his hips and squeezing, drawing him impossibly closer.

"Regina," he groans into her neck as the tip of him bumps against her belly, hips bucking wildly when his shaft slides against her wetness.

And she's so, so wet. And he's so, so hard. And smooth, and thick, and she wants him so fucking much.

She kisses him with abandon, all tongue and teeth, scratching at his scalp and down his back, swallowing his groans as she presses herself up against him, mouth to mouth, chest to chest—and then he finally, finally sinks into her.

Time freezes for a moment, and neither of them moves, foreheads pressed together as their breaths wash over each other— a moment of serenity, of home, in an often crazy world.

When he finally moves, it's slow and gentle, letting her adjust, easing into a quicker pace when she urges him to go faster, to drive into her harder. She's more than ready for him, meets every erratic thrust of his hips. He feels amazing—she feels amazing—and he won't stop kissing every inch of skin he can reach. But suddenly she hates even the bit of distance that requires, tries desperately to pull him closer, closer, until she can no longer tell where she ends and he begins. Robin must understand, for he relents, fuses his lips with hers instead on a breath of her name, hikes up her knees and slams into her, then rocks into her almost gently—and again, and again, and again. Regina's robbed of coherent thought much less speech, and responds to each drive of his cock with a sharp cry of pleasure. The angle is pure heaven, they fit so perfectly together she could cry, and he's whispering into her ear now, words of love and passion and encouragement—and she's close, so close—she loves0—she loves this—loves _him_ so much—and oh, there's that tight coil in her belly waiting to spring free, Robin's tight-strung voice telling her to _come for me, my darling_ , as he drives one last sharp thrust into her, wedges a hand between them and rubs at her clit—

—and she flies. Soars and soars with the his name tumbling out of her in a silent cry, is soaring still when he comes with a series of grunts, only to be brought down from the high to the sound of her name falling reverently from his lips.

"Merry Christmas, thief," she giggles after a minute or two of trading lazy kisses and soft caresses.

"Merry Christmas, Your Majesty," he grins back at her fondly. "Now, shall we get you thoroughly cleaned up?"

###

The candle nearest to the rim of the bathtub is smoking gently, snuffed out by water and fragrant foam sloshed out by their previous vigorous activities. The room is bathed in soft candlelight that flickers prettily—nowhere near as pretty a sight as his love though, sprawled in the tub with her back resting against his chest. Her skin, no longer sticky with sweat and remnants of sugar clinging to it, glows and shimmers, and her eyes sparkle as she turns her head for an awkward-angled kiss.

"That, milady, was no mistletoe," Robin grins cheekily, referring to the bough of holly that's long slipped from Regina's trembling fingers, all but drowned now in the puddle at the foot of the tub. She'd held it over their heads with a mischievous wink, an invitation for round three Robin had been only too happy to accept.

"I didn't notice you complaining before."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it."

She sighs against him, sinking lower in the water, lower into his embrace, arms and legs tangled. Robin breathes her in, all apple and vanilla and Regina, and watches the water rippling gently with the rise and fall of her chest. Finally, she looks perfectly content, completely at peace, boneless and relaxed amid steam and bubbles. His own strained muscles welcome the relief as well, the soreness floating away with every deep breath as he flexes his arms underwater.

"You do realise I could have just magicked the snow away."

"And why didn't you?" Robin plays along with her gentle teasing. "Do you, perhaps, enjoy watching me do hard, backbreaking physical work?"

"What do you think?"

What he thinks is she very much does, the little minx, even as she offers a spectacle of her own as payback, stretching her toned legs languidly, spraying droplets of water over the wall. And then her mood seems to shift; she hooks her fingers into his arms wound around her and snuggles deeper into him.

"Thank you," she says softly, "for bearing with me all of last week."

"It's not a hardship," Robin returns, even though yes, it was a tough one on them, that pre-Christmas week she wanted so much to make perfect for everyone even if it meant disregarding her own needs. "I'm here for you—always. And thank you, love," he hesitates, unsure of how to phrase this without putting a damper on this beautiful bubble of theirs, "for standing with me, even though it meant part of your family was missing from the festivities."

Perhaps next year, he thinks, things will be different, perhaps enough time will have passed and enough healing will have occurred, but this time he just wasn't ready yet—and she understood.

"I'm with you," she whispers simply, an echo of words uttered before, and hugs him tighter, as though afraid that another calamity might follow her vow again. "Always."

When the heat seeps from the water and the first shiver rattles her frame, they climb out and dry each other off with soft, fluffy towels. Regina raises an eyebrow when he produces the forest green sweater swollen to almost twice its size in the wash, a flicker of guilt passing over her features that he chases away with a kiss as he slips the soft wool over the both of them. Regina breathes a laugh, her warm skin flush against his, one arm draped around his waist underneath the sweater, the other winding around his neck, tickling him with the too-long sleeve.

They move downstairs to Regina's study, bumping into each other clumsily and giggling like the lovesick fools they are, and settle by the fireplace wrapped up in each other, their oversized sweater, and an extra blanket—a cosy cocoon neither will be quick to leave anytime soon. They make plans in hushed tones for the next few days with the boys and baby Peanut. Amid soft touches they watch the sky darken outside, dispatching ever more snowflakes onto the town. Gazing into the dancing flames, their eyes begin to droop, their hearts beating the same steady, peaceful rhythm, and then sleep claims the both of them.

Chaos will return soon enough, but the welcome kind this time—a five-year-old tornado and a moody teenager, a temperamental little princess set to upset what little sleeping pattern there still is to their lives, and a troop of friends and relatives coming and going.

And so the week after Christmas, 108 Mifflin Street is filled with soft, warm fires and warmer hugs, with eggnog and giggles, bruises kissed better and mittens dripping melted snow. With tickle wars and fits of laughter, happy shouts and whispered confessions, sweet snuggles and lazy love-making.

With love, and joy, and cheer.


End file.
